


Love in the time of PTSD

by hw_campbell_jr



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Art School, Extreme angst, Hipsters, M/M, Medical Horrors, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Sex, and panic attacks
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-26
Updated: 2017-02-26
Packaged: 2018-09-27 01:26:37
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 59,919
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9944234
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hw_campbell_jr/pseuds/hw_campbell_jr
Summary: When the establishment insists that Steve needs to do something for Steve Rogers (as distinct from Captain America), he goes to art school. That's all going pretty well until someone shoots him when he's not anticipating it. It's hard, for both of them.





	1. Art School

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this set way back when I'd just started writing AmCap. I made a few hasty updates around the time of CA:TWS, but I'm not sure they work very well. Still, it is what it is, and here it is.
> 
> There is sex in this chapter and it's dirty in like a tame but sort of lovely way.

“Cute,” Tony says. 

 

It’s not an appropriate answer. Steve makes a weird face. His eyebrows come together, not like he’s been insulted, but like it’s an honest criticism he can’t quite parse. 

 

Tony feels bad about that. He’s not trying to criticize. He just doesn’t know what he’s looking at. Steve’s hands are steady on the edge of the paper, and the drawing is good, sure. It’s really good, actually. But so what? So Steve is good at art? It’s not news. 

 

“That’s probably not what I was going for,” Steve says. “I don’t want the style to be alienating, but I don’t think it should be exactly cute either. What do you mean when you say that? What part is cute? Specifically.”

“I don’t know, I mean it’s good,” Tony says. “They’re good drawings.”

 

Steve frowns again. “Okay. Well, thanks.”

 

He’s overdressed, Tony thinks. He is, Tony. Not Steve. Steve is wearing jeans and a baseball shirt that is splattered with ink, and he’s got ink on his hands, and his hair is tousled because he slept at his desk last night, which is more-or-less why Tony is here now, but Tony is wearing Business Clothes and honestly he’s kind of self-conscious about it. 

 

Yeah. A purple silk tie, even. At art school. In Brooklyn. The suit would probably be okay for Brooklyn if it was _vintage_ or something (the tie actually is vintage, but it was new when Tony bought it, so the only reason it qualifies is because Tony is old) but it’s conspicuous on campus either way. Really, he should have worn jeans. He can wear jeans to his meetings if he likes. Nobody’d say anything. He can just show up at this board meeting and sign off on designs for people and say, yeah, hi guys, I just came from art school in Brooklyn and I wear jeans to meetings because I’m just naturally hip like that. 

 

Like Steve Jobs. Oh, god. He’s _Steve Jobs_. 

 

“Could you eat something, please?” Tony says, to Steve. “If I’m going to bring you a sandwich, you could eat it. I’m not exactly in the delivery business. My time is valuable. I’m a very important person”

 

It’s a joke. And Steve should laugh at it, or at least smile, but he doesn’t. He’s preoccupied. He’s put the drawing down on his desk and is leafing through the others. “Yeah, I will in a minute.”

“Or now, though, maybe. I’m just, you know, saying, if you could eat these sandwiches I got you, so I know I’m still a useful, productive member of society even though we’re in fucking Brooklyn.”

“I said, I will in a minute. Relax, okay?”

 

“I’m relaxed,” Tony says. “I just want you to eat these sandwiches I got you. They’re corned beef. That’s how much you mean to me, Steve. I’m prepared to come to _Brooklyn_ and bring you a sandwich that isn’t even made of food. And it was hard to find here. Everything is vegetarian. I’m still coated in hipster from the place I had to go to for it. My pants almost skinnied themselves by sheer proximity. I had to listen to folk music. It was _icky_. Eat the sandwiches.”

 

At least Steve snorts at that. “It’s… yeah,” he says. He brushes his hand over his papers, then stops, leans on the desk, looking at Tony now. His expression isn’t exactly fond, but it’s getting there. It’s definitely Steve again, instead of this strange, distant creature that Tony’s starting not to recognize. What if this is what I’m like, when I work? Tony asks himself. All fenced off, in my own head like this?

 

“It’s yeah, what?” he asks Steve, aloud.

“It’s sure not Brooklyn anymore,” Steve says. “C’mere, will you?”

 

Tony does. Steve hugs him. It’s pretty firm, but honestly a little furtive. Tony’s been thinking of Steve as distracted, as uninterested in his presence here, but the hug doesn’t seem like that’s true at all. Steve is so much bigger than him, but the way he holds, tight, and bends over and buries his face into Tony’s neck like this, it feels to Tony like he’s trying to make himself smaller somehow, and like Tony might stop him from doing that.

 

Tony won’t, though. He wonders why Steve even thinks he might. Which, okay, maybe because this kind of burrowing thing that Steve does makes Tony feel fucking weird and inappropriately tender, and because Tony’s track record with those kinds of sensations is not exactly great, but he’s not going to be that guy right now. “You okay?” he asks. See? Exemplary. 

“Uh huh,” Steve says, but he doesn’t move his face or his body.

 

Tony runs a hand up and down Steve’s back a couple of times, the hand that isn’t holding the bag from the sandwich place. Steve seems to appreciate that, because he relaxes a little. Moves himself into a position that seems to Tony like it would be a little less uncomfortable for a person of Steve’s size. And then he lets go.

 

“So you falling asleep at your desk at school and not coming home, that’s not a thing, right?” Tony says. “I shouldn’t think that’s a thing, even though you didn’t answer anybody’s calls and then I had to come to Brooklyn and bring you corned beef sandwiches, which, okay, gross, and also, Brooklyn, but it’s not a thing right? There’s not a problem?”

 

“I was just working a lot,” Steve says. His face is very solemn. “That’s my mom, in the drawing. My mom and me. I think the comic’s going to be about her. About her life.”

 

Tony’s heart breaks a little. “Aw, Stevie.” 

“It’s okay,” Steve says. “I mean that, really. I’m not getting emotional. I should have called.”

 

That doesn’t help Tony’s heart any. For a second he wants to touch Steve’s face, but he feels like Steve wouldn’t like it. “Or just, you know, answered when I called you, but no big.”

 

Steve isn’t buying that, and Tony knows it. “I was just working,” Steve says. “I didn’t even know it was late, really.”

“Okay,” Tony says.

“Pretty dumb,” Steve says. 

 

He turns back to the desk. He takes the bag with the sandwiches in it as he does it, one movement, like he’s done being vulnerable, and there’s sandwiches now, something practical. “And I didn’t eat enough, I think. I wouldn’t usually fall asleep like that. I just… forget sometimes, you know?”

 

“No,” Tony says. “I mean, yeah, but that’s not something you do.”

“I mean, usually I remember because I feel it, but.”

“Or because you’re suddenly an asshole for no reason. But I wasn’t there to fight with you, so you didn’t notice. Which, so, I mean… you should appreciate our fights more.”

 

Steve is investigating the bag, opening it, but Tony sees him smile anyway. 

“Yeah, okay,” Steve says. “This looks pretty good. Thanks.”

“I’m not joking around,” Tony says. “You’re like a woman with PMS. Forget the physical symptoms, hunger makes you cranky.”

“I know. It’s a metabolism thing. Look, I’m sorry, okay?”

 

“Gross,” Tony says, about the sandwich. “And there’s cabbage in there. Which… gross.”

“Cabbage is good,” Steve says. “It’s versatile.”

“It’s gross.”

“You might like it if you tried it.”

 

“I’m not going to like it,” Tony says. “And I don’t know what corned is, but I know you shouldn’t do it to beef.”   
“It’s just salt-cured. It’s like very soft jerky, almost? Kind of? It’s good. But listen, thanks for bringing me a sandwich.”

“Two sandwiches. You’re a growing boy, Rogers.”

“And sorry for making you worry.”

“Who worried?” Tony says. “You can do what you like.” 

 

Steve doesn’t say anything to that, because has a sandwich in his mouth, and he’s chewing it. But slowly, he’s not wolfing it like Tony would have expected him to. It makes him suspicious. “What’s that on your face?” Tony asks, suddenly. 

 

Steve’s hand shoots up to his temple, but it’s too late. Tony’s already seen enough of the bruise to recognize it for what it is. Steve is sheepish. “I guess it’s from my desk,” he says. “It’s okay, though. It’ll heal.”

“So you’re saying that you didn’t so much fall asleep here as you passed out.”

“I guess,” Steve says. He takes another bite of sandwich. He’s doing a very good job of faking like he’s not in trouble. 

 

“Okay, well,” Tony says. Steve just eats his sandwich. 

 

Tony doesn’t like this situation, and he doesn’t like how he feels about it, but he doesn’t have anything to say about it either, so he takes the opportunity to look around. The architecture of Steve’s studio is not news either, no more than Steve’s abilities were, but it looks different since last time, when he was moving Steve in. The shelves are starting to get cluttered with books. The window still doesn’t seem big enough to draw by, but there are overheads, and Tony guesses the white walls make it a little brighter. It seems friendly, almost, like it’s Steve’s own little place. 

 

It is, really. Steve’s own little place. And it’s probably the only place that’s been Steve’s own for this long. That apartment he had for a little while bought it in the Chitauri come-down. Then DC. Then Tony’s life. 

 

Tony doesn’t know for sure about Steve’s living situation before the army, but he’s guessing with influence. It’s the neatness that’s making him think that. It’s starting to get full in general, the studio, and there’s starting to be things everywhere on the walls (besides work of Steve’s own that’s up there for storage or drying). But it’s all very neat in its arrangement. It’s all very cautiously placed. Mostly color photostats of other people’s stuff. _Inspiration_ , or something like that, Tony guesses Steve would call it if he asked him. 

 

Steve is watching him. The first sandwich is only half finished. This is really slow eating for Steve. Slow like he’s probably feeling pretty terrible, and is trying to pretend he isn’t. And that exact thought must be on Tony’s face, because Steve says, again, “I’m sorry.”

“For what?”

“You shouldn’t worry. It was irresponsible, I get that. But it’s a one time deal. I’ve got the project now. I’m not going to be obsessive about it.”

“Who’s worried? Did I seem like I was worried? This is just a regular sandwich delivery in Brooklyn. I’m not worried.”

 

“Tony,” Steve says. “Come on.”

“I can’t exactly judge.”

“Yeah, no” Steve says. “But so what, right?”

“And it’s good, I mean, you’ve got a Masters project, that’s good.”  
“Yeah. Thanks. But?”

“But I just… we have a dynamic, Steve. I’m irresponsible, and I work too much, and you… don’t. You’re a reliable guy who doesn’t do things like work until he passes out and not pick up his phone.”

 

Okay. Well. He’s said it now. And Steve looks so serious. The sandwich is just sitting there in his hands like he’s forgotten about it. But he nods. “Okay.”

 

“It’s just established,” Tony says. “I have a routine, specifically a routine in which I am the only unreliable person, and I don’t like when people fuck it up, that’s all I’m saying. 

“Okay,” Steve says.

“And I don’t like coming to Brooklyn.”

“Okay.” 

“Is that… it’s not… look, whatever, I have to go anyway, I told Pepper I’d sign off on her design this afternoon, for Malibu. I have a meeting. It’s not a thing.”

 

“Tony,” Steve says. “It’s okay that it’s a thing.”

“It’s fine. It’s getting kind of cluttered in here.” 

“And I wouldn’t pass out if I wasn’t, you know, a science experiment. It’s just school. People work through meals, I guess I just forgot that I couldn’t. But I’ve learned my lesson. I’ll get some snacks in here, I promise. It’s not going to happen again.”

“I told you it’s fine.” 

“It’s really not fine though. I wish I’d been better about it,” Steve says. “I really do. I feel pretty crummy now, if it’s any consolation. I could have called, and I should have. It’s just… my mom.”

 

Tony feels like a shit-heel. “It’s okay,” he says. “I get it. Sometimes you have to work.”

“Yeah,” Steve says. 

“And the drawings are really good.”

“Thanks.”

“I mean it. I don’t… you know I’m basically an art illiterate, but it’s obviously going to be a great comic.”

“Thanks,” Steve says. 

“I’m not great at this,” Tony tells him. He hopes his expression conveys how true that is. “You know, human feelings.”

 

“You do okay, Stark,” Steve says. He’s started to look kind of amused. He eats the rest of the sandwich in three quick bites, and there’s still one in the bag, but he doesn’t start that now. Instead, he carefully folds the bag over, and slides it over into the corner of his desk. “No worse than me.”

 

“It’s kind of… look, okay, I don’t… I mean, I don’t _care_ or anything, you’re an adult, it’s your business, and if you want to work, you work. Fine.” Tony says. “I don’t have any problem with that, and if I did have a problem it would be my problem, and not yours. But okay. Not that cool. Right now I’m imagining you sitting around in your studio all night by yourself when there’s stuff about your mom, and I don’t… it’s not that cool. I’m not saying I’m crying about it, I had stuff to do, I was busy, I don’t spend my time thinking about people who don’t call me, but you could have called. I don’t care but you could have, you know, it was physically possible to call.”

 

He’s rambling. But Steve lets him, gives him the space to finish without cutting him off or hurrying him up. Tony appreciates that, when he notices it. Enough to come down a little.

 

“There were people here,” Steve says, when Tony is done. “But yeah. Fair enough.”

“I’d talk to you about it, I guess.”

“I know you would.”

“I mean, you could talk to me.”

“I got that.”

 

So why don’t you? Tony wants to ask him, but he knows why. So, “I never saw comics like that when I was a kid,” he says, instead. “Is this Brand Spanking Rogers Original? Are you comics Picasso? That’s an artist, right?”

 

He’s joking. He knows who Picasso is. Steve grins. “You mean the washes, or do you mean boring?”

“Not boring,” Tony says. “But yeah, that ballpark.”

“Concerned with Minutiae,” Steve says, in a precise tone, like it’s something he’s memorized. 

 

“Okay,” Tony says. “Hey, did you like that baseball metaphor just then? That was accidental, but so what, right? You don’t care why it happened, you just care that it did. A sandwich and a baseball metaphor, Steven. In Brooklyn. You’re really lucking out here today.”

 

Steve is still grinning. He thinks it’s funny when Tony calls him Steven, or at least he seems to. “Mmm, it’s pretty done, this kind of comics,” he says. “I mean, this, what I’m doing. It’s a lot like Raymond Briggs or Alison Bechdel? Briggs in story especially, but I’m taking a lot of the style from Bechdel, sorta. Not very original. But I think it’s going to be good, so… well, yeah, I guess I’ll just do this.”

 

Tony doesn’t know those names. “So it’s like your diary comic?”

“Uh huh,” Steve says. “Like that.”

“So your Masters project is a fancy version of your secret diary, is what you’re telling me.”

“Pretty much,” Steve says.

 

“And that’s art now?” Tony says, and it’s very sarcastic. But he’s not trying to be mean, and Steve knows that. “That’s all you have to do to get a Masters degree in fine arts, illustrate your diary? I wish I’d known that at MIT, I could have saved a lot of time. Fuck conceptual physics, just be an artist and do whatever you want.” 

“Don’t know if it’s art,” Steve says. “Don’t… really care?”

 

That makes Tony smile. It’s funny how Steve never shows exhaustion on his face. He looks as fresh as if he’d come out of a day-spa. Just messy and inky. A little beard growth too, but it kind of suits him. He’s looking at his drawings again now. Wearing kind of a frown, like he’s seeing corrections he should have got started with, but mostly like he knows exactly what he’s doing. 

 

It’s familiar. It’s a familiar face on Steve. Tony’s about to slip an arm around him when he looks up again. “Hey, thanks for coming,” he says, Steve.

 

Nope, then. “No problem,” Tony says. “So I’ll see you back at the ranch or something.”

“Not what I meant, Tony.” 

“Sure,” Tony says. “Whatever.” 

“I meant I’m glad you’re here. It’s nice. It’s nice to show you this stuff. It’s nice to see you.”

“It’s really good, Steve,” Tony tells him, “your comic. You’re really good at this.” 

“Thanks,” Steve says. “Hey, I love you.”

 

It’s not news. A lot of things today are not news, and this isn’t either. Steve isn’t saying it like it’s revelatory, he’s just saying it. Like he’s said it a thousand times before and will, god willing, say it a few times again. Tony doesn’t react. Well, he kind of does. “Aw,” he says, in a mocking, actually pretty disdainful voice, but he means it, he means exactly “aw,” and Steve knows it. 

 

“Sandwich delivery, for example” Steve says. “That’s pretty good.”

“Sandwich delivery _in Brooklyn_. I’m not saying don’t acknowledge the labor, I’m just saying, acknowledge it with the weight it deserves. I’m _in_ _Borough_.”

“And you’re from _California_ ,” Steve says. “And it’s _really_ _obvious_. But yeah, I’m lucky.”

“No, you’re stupid. I was this close to using the emergency number. Don’t fucking not call me again.”

 

Steve blinks. Tony doesn’t flinch. Fuck you, Steve, he thinks. I can say things too. And that’s probably the face he has on, actually. A ‘fuck you’ face. He dials it back a little. “I’m old, you know. My constitution is feeble. I could die of that sort of thing.”

 

Steve smiles again. Widely. “I’m sorry.”   
“You’re not even going to bitch about how you can take care of yourself? Good. Okay. Well… good.”

 

“I can,” Steve says. “And I do, usually. But nope, I didn’t today.”

“Okay. Right.”

“I will, though. I mean it. Once. One time, and that’s it.”

“Good.” 

“Don’t say bitch, though, huh? Fuck is okay, but not bitch.”

“Okay,” Tony says. “What?”

 

“It’s sexist,” Steve says. “Like women say things that don’t matter. Kvetch?”

_College_ , Tony thinks. “Fine.”

“I’m not going to kvetch.”

“Good.”

“Because you’re right.”

“Yep.” 

 

“That’s a decent suit,” Steve says. “It’s for work, huh?”

“Don’t fucking push it, Rogers.”

“You look good is all.”  
Tony says, “obviously.”

 

They’re standing slightly at odds with each other now. Steve’s leaning against the desk, arms folded, Tony’s standing with his feet apart, and he has his arms folded too. It’s slick, Tony feels, this posture he’s got going on, and he senses that Steve is well aware of that fact, that Tony is being slick. Steve’s expression has started to take on some of that sarcastic interest that it sometimes gets when he’s ramping up to something. 

 

Sassiness, he’s heard Pepper call it. There are times, occasional times, in which Steve is capable of being sassy. 

 

“So this arrangement you’re making about calling each other,” Steve says. “It goes both ways, right?” 

 

Oh, it’s sassy. And it’s _cute_. Tony wonders if Steve knows how cute he is right now, with this sassing. 

“No,” Tony says. “We have a dynamic.”

“Right,” Steve says. But he’s still smiling. Still cute.

 

“These things work off dynamics,” Tony tells him. “It’s like nature, like physics. You have a series of opposing forces, they work in opposition, and in this case it’s that you’re Captain Upstanding and I’m…”

“Iron Teenager?”

 

Tony shrugs. “Basically.”

“They didn’t even have teenagers when I was a kid,” Steve says. “You had being a kid, and then work. This teenager thing, this is some new West Coast phenomenon. Adolescence. Which you’re stuck in.”

“I thought you went to college when you were that age. I thought you went to this exact college.”

“Yeah, but it was for work. I was going to get a job out of it. You didn’t have this… ‘self-discovery’ thing.”

 

Tony wants to laugh at the way Steve uses that phrase. Old bootstrapping Steve. He’s not a fan of self-help. Or self-indulgence. Or on some levels, Tony thinks, self-esteem. 

 

“You’re telling me that’s what you’re doing?” Tony says. “You’re being a teenager. You’re having the College Experience.”

“I think,” Steve says. “Yeah.”

“And how is it?”  
“It’s okay.”

“So that’s why…” Tony says, and then he stops. Because he gets it. “So you miss your mom.”

 

“She wanted me to go,” Steve says. “It was important to her. I’m the first Rogers to go to college, for anything, did you know that? But she never… I mean she died before… I didn’t get the sense I could goof around. I don’t know how she’d feel about this.”

 

Tony is quiet. “You’re still not really goofing around, Stevie.”

 

Steve’s smile has taken on an odd cast. Regretful, maybe, or just strained with a few different emotions. His eyes are very blue. “I guess I’m not a goofer by nature.”

“No, Captain Rogers, you are not,” Tony says. “That’s what I mean about this dynamic business here, you follow? You call me, but I don’t call you. Because you’re not a goofer. And I am.”

 

Steve looks at him with a sharpness that Tony misunderstands as anger for a split second. Which is okay. It’s fair. This is serious, this is Steve talking about his mom, and Tony shouldn’t be trying to bring it back to their sort-of-fight. It’s okay for Steve to be angry, Tony thinks. But he isn’t angry, and that’s obvious as soon as he speaks. 

 

“No,” Steve says. “You’re not a goofer. You’ve got a lot else going on, but that’s not what you are.”

“Okay, okay,” Tony says. “Let’s not get derailed listing my character defects. They are many, and I am aware of them. Let’s just leave it at that.”

“You don’t have character defects, Tony,” Steve says. “You have character.” 

 

The studio is so still, Tony thinks. He can hear sounds, faintly, that let him know there are other people in the building, someone in the next studio over, even. Some kid is playing music somewhere, but it’s muffled enough that Tony doesn’t know what music it is, or where it’s coming from exactly. But all that feels divorced from right here, like they’re insulated. In Steve’s own little place. It belongs to Steve in here. Everything that comes here belongs to Steve. And that’s a huge, huge fucking deal.

 

“Hey,” Tony says. “It’s a fine distinction at this point.”

 

Steve doesn’t answer that. He’s still kind of smiling and he’s kind of not, but mostly he’s just watching. Tony rocks on his feet. “Okay,” he says. “Well.”

“Got your meeting?”   
“Uh huh.”

 

Steve puts out his hand and Tony takes it, which Steve uses to pull Tony firmly against him. His arms come up around Tony’s body. “I’m sorry about last night,” he says.

“I’m over it,” Tony tells him.

 

Steve’s arms are tighter for a moment there. Tony’s head is against Steve’s chest, and I love you, he wants to say, so I worried, okay? That’s all. 

 

But he doesn’t say it. The hug is enough of that. He can feel Steve laying his head against his hair. It’s enough.

 

“It’s good,” Steve says. “It’s good that you came. I guess I felt sorry for myself, about the comic. Pretty stupid, right?”

 

Tony’s constitution is not even close to managing this kind of confession. He is driven to say _Oh god, Stevie_ in a tender voice, but he doesn’t say that either. Steve wouldn’t like it, for one thing. “A lot of things you do are pretty stupid,” he says, instead.

 

Steve laughs. Tony can feel the movement in several different places. In Steve’s chest. In Steve’s cheek against his head. “Yep,” Steve says. He moves back a little. “Hey, Tony?”

 

That beard growth, Tony thinks. It’s good. It’s _rugged_. And Steve’s sharp little hip under his hand. Confusing. This weird softness in Steve’s manner, this susceptibility, and the general, firm attractiveness of Steve’s body, they’re running together somewhere. 

 

“Hey yourself,” Tony says.

“So you’ve really got to go?”

“Yeah,” Tony says, but doesn’t move.

“Okay. Well can I at least…? C’mere in that suit, huh?”  
“You can,” Tony says, and Steve kisses him.

 

The kiss is not forceful. It’s tender, and Steve’s mouth is slightly open, and the stubble is slightly scratchy but Tony leans into it, eagerly. So much so that he almost surprises himself. So much so that it’s probably obvious, because he feels Steve start laughing against his lips. 

 

“What the fuck, Steve?” Tony says, but he doesn’t really mean it. He’s not really angry. He’s just joking. “You’re going to laugh when you’re kissing me now? That was your last sandwich from Tony’s Delivery Service, I hope you know that.” 

 

Steve knows it. “Damn,” he says. “You really missed me, huh?”

“No,” Tony says. “I had stuff to do.” 

“Uh huh.”

“Yes,” Tony says. And then he grabs Steve’s ass with both hands, jerks him forward, and kisses the laugh off of him.

 

It works. Of course it does. Tony is good at what he does, probing Steve’s mouth open a little, not forcing anything, not dragging it out. Just slipping Steve the exact right amount of tongue so that when it’s over, when he pulls back, Steve has stopped laughing. 

 

Steve is flushed, in fact. A little pink in the face, eyes are wide and excited. It’s a good look for him. In point of fact, Tony thinks, rocking casually on his feet again, using Steve’s ass for balance, there is a lot about the way Steve looks in this moment that is pretty good. Good enough for another little kiss, even. Just a soft one this time. Lucking out again, Rogers, he thinks. And Steve’ll be home tonight, Tony knows it. He can feel, even though it’s muffled by layers of clothing, that Stevie Pilgrim is on his way to getting hard. His work here is done. 

“Well, bye, then.”

“Bye?” Steve says, in a strangled voice.

 

But Tony hasn’t moved his hands away from Steve’s ass, and Steve hasn’t done anything at all to help him do that. He’s completely still. Tony paws a little. The jeans are thicker than he’d like, but he gets the idea. “Are you even wearing underwear?”

 

Steve actually blushes at that. 

“So, no?”

“Sometimes I don’t,” Steve says. 

“You like free-balling it?”

  
“Tony! Jeez!” Steve says, in shock-amusement. Steve is definitely getting hard now, and so, as a matter of fact, is Tony.

“That’s hot, Rogers. This is all very hot.”

 

Steve’s face is fantastic. He’s one-half embarrassed, and he’s one-half _really into it_ , and that is a mighty appropriate cocktail, as far as Tony is concerned. He lets Steve force his expression into a half-smile, allows him a moment to take some control over his apparent wonderment, because it’s only decent of Tony to do so in Steve’s studio. But once that’s done, he moves himself against Steve’s body. Gently. Just a little closer and then up and down. “Well, bye,” he says, again, and then he moves. 

 

Steve’s whole body jolts. Tony feels that happen in the hard-on region, but also generally, in that Steve almost kind of surges forward and grabs against him and his little gasp in his ear is _quite awesome_ , actually, and Tony feels kind of out of control himself for just a moment. He puts a lid on it, though. He’s in charge of these proceedings. He’s making a point here, and it’s this: when you don’t call me, Stevie, there is some serious stuff you’re missing out on. 

 

Might as well underscore it, too. For the fun of it. “You’re hard,” Tony says, and Steve’s eyes go even wider, like he’s shocked Tony would be so bold as to point out a factual thing that is happening. 

 

It’s not just shock, either. That’s a nice little bonus, sure, Steve’s adorable propriety-face and the way he reacts to sex talk. But mainly it’s that his face is not the only thing that reacts, and Tony feels that again as soon as he says the words. That telltale rush of pressure. Oh yeah. It’s one of his favorite feelings. “And here I thought you were just kissing me goodbye.”

 

“I… was?” Steve says. He looks like he doesn’t know what else to say, but it’s not like it matters. Other parts of his body know what they’re doing, they don’t need instruction. Tony’s still holding Steve’s ass and now he squeezes it. Slides his hand into the crease under Steve’s butt-cheek, and there it is again, as soon as he draws his fingers along that line; jolt. Surge. Pressure against his stomach. _Good._ He kisses Steve again. He makes it count. Steve is _into it_.

 

“Yeah,” Tony says, grinning like the douchebag he absolutely knows he is. “Yeah, how ‘bout that?”

 

Until this point, Tony really thinks he’s just been teasing, winding Steve up just for fun and a little punishment. He was honestly planning to go. He has stuff to do, he wasn’t kidding. Later, at this meeting he has, when he’s sitting in the boardroom, looking at the plans on the table and trying to fake like he’s engaged, he’ll be thinking about this exact moment, even. 

 

Specifically, he’ll wonder if it’s the cockiness of that ‘yeah’ that makes it happen. If that little bit of what Steve will occasionally refer to as “full Tony” pulls the trigger on that particular combination of aggression and perversity that Tony, on other occasions, might be inclined to refer to as “full Steve.” 

 

There’s evidence supporting that hypothesis. Specifically, the fact that right then and there, Steve picks Tony up at the waist, firmly, sharply, like he’s disciplining a kid, and lifts him up onto his desk, and comes at him. 

 

Tony doesn’t even get time to be surprised about it. Steve kisses him, hard, and wet, and kind of shoving him back against the wall with full, targeted force, and Tony becomes aware, on no uncertain terms and with no confusion, that Steve is no longer kidding around. 

“Woah, woah, woah,” Tony says, “Stevie, Stevie, hey.” 

 

Steve pulls back. He’s panting and his lips are red and wet, and it’s all looking very desperate all of a sudden.

“Your drawings, honey,” Tony says.

 

Steve’s mouth is slack for a second, but he comes to, kind of, and he grunts. He lets go and he moves the drawings, slots them into the shelf under the desk. It’s fastidious, that movement, and Tony thinks for a second that maybe the spell is broken. But it’s not, and Steve grabs Tony’s waist, jerks him forward, and kisses him again. There’s his mouth, and his hands are really gripping, and his hard-on is pressing against Tony’s thigh and it’s good. It’s _really_ _good_. 

 

But it’s also _Steve_ and they’re _making out on Steve’s desk_ and Tony can’t not laugh about it. Steve pulls back again. 

“What, Tony?” he says, like he’s trying not to be irritated. 

 

Tony wants to grin about that too. He slings his arms up over Steve’s shoulders, ruffles his hair from the back. Steve’s expression is fucking priceless, because he’s obviously trying be polite and a good guy, but he also _really_ wants Tony to put up or shut up, and Tony knows it. Steve’s almost shivering. Steve’s shivering from not kissing him.

 

Tony lets him do that for a minute. It’s too good not to. He watches Steve push it down, get on top of it, watches him still himself, enjoys the fact that what Steve is trying to get on top of is being turned on by him. Then, Tony leans forward and he makes a little bite at Steve’s lip. He feels it travel through Steve’s body. “Nothing,” Tony says.

 

Steve smiles. It’s long and thin, like it’s taking its time to fold out to the edges of Steve’s face. It’s not an entirely nice smile, either. It’s kind of predatory. And if Tony hadn’t already been hard, he would damn well be hard now, because that face, on Steve, is a very fucking exciting face. They are actually going to fuck, he realizes, with an almost embarrassing excitement. This is actually going to be fucking, right here and now on Steve’s desk. 

 

Tony wants to push it. He wants to talk dirty and to tell Steve to do awful things to him, to use him like a piece of meat, to goad him to make sounds that will make somebody come running. But he knows it won’t fly. Steve has the sexual appetites of a seventeen year old street fighter, but the sexual attitudes of Maude Flanders, and if Tony points out what is happening here, Steve will fold up like a deckchair and it won’t be happening any more. 

 

So he doesn’t. He just watches Steve move towards him and tries to get a hold of himself. Because Steve’s movements are slow but getting faster, and they are going to fuck on Steve’s desk and he, Tony, he is in serious danger of losing it. 

 

_So_ much more so when Steve’s hand goes for his pants. He pushes Tony’s waistcoat up, and his shirt, and undershirt, but it’s all one quick motion. He rumples the clothes, then he tugs at Tony’s belt, then it’s open, and Steve’s hand is down under his boxer-briefs and then firm, tight, around his cock. 

 

“Jesus,” Tony breathes. 

“Shut the fuck up, Stark,” Steve says. “There’s no need to bring blasphemy into this situation.”

 

Woah. Tony doesn’t even laugh now. He knows better. Steve’s hand is still, like he’s waiting. 

“Okay. Okay, Steve, okay,” Tony says, and then Steve’s hand moves. Real slow. Down, tight, then loose and up again. Jesus, though. Just fucking jesus, Steve is good at this.

 

Steve’s other hand, Tony registers, vaguely, is propping Steve up on the desk so that Steve can kind of loom over him. They’re pressed close, and Steve isn’t even kissing him anymore, he’s just looking Tony in the face with that serious, command expression that Tony recognizes from actual command. It’s Steve’s Captain America face, actually. It’s that exact kind of battlefield determination.

 

That’s the expression Steve is wearing while he’s jerking Tony off. Like jerking Tony off is a very serious mission for the good of the nation. It’s fucking ridiculous. 

 

But it’s also _fucking awesome_. _Incredibly_ awesome, in fact. Steve is _working_ it and it is _pretty damn okay_. And Tony needs to put some work into it too, he realizes, because this is all very excellent, but he is totally being selfish, and that is hardly the attitude of a gentleman. So he ruches up Steve’s baseball shit at the back, and slips his head under it at the front, and then there’s Steve’s chest, hairless and muscled and, when he puts his mouth on it, salty. 

 

Steve bucks at that touch. He groans at it. The sound is almost too much for Tony and he almost comes in Steve’s hand right then, but he doesn’t. _Don’t fucking come_ , he thinks, and he’d laugh at that too, probably, usually, but _Steve’s fucking chest right now._

“Tony,” Steve says. It sounds kind of pained. Worrying. “Tony.”

 

Tony ducks his head out from under Steve’s shirt. “What’s going on, honey? Where’s your dick at this angle? Let me have it, okay? Let me do something to you.”  
“It’s all… it’s too much, okay? Don’t do that.”

“I’m not doing anything though.”

 

“You’re…” Steve is breathless, and troubled, and his demeanor is cracking and his hand is still busy but Tony feels it shake and _oh fucking jesus wow_ he thinks but does not say. Like maybe stop jerking me off if you want to have a conversation Stevie? but also _do not fucking stop Steve do not stop doing that_.

 

Jesus this is hard. In two clear senses. It is very, very hard to be a good guy right now. 

“You’re being a thing, though,” Steve says. “Tony, you’re… fuck.”

“Stevie you’re not making any sense.” 

“Just,” Steve says, and this is kind of distressing Tony now, but at least it’s slowing things down. Tony might get an extra minute of fortitude out of this delay.

 

“Stevie,” Tony says. “Hey. Steve. It’s okay.”

“I know,” Steve says, “Just…”

“Just what?”

 

“I’m just really turned on,” Steve says. Then his face is against Tony’s neck again, and Tony loses that extra minute. Bam. Just like that, bam, and _oh god, don’t come_ again _._

 

He does not understand the perverse mixture of sensations that are making it happen – tenderness? Is this fucked up protective feeling for Steve actually making him hornier? – and not knowing almost just kind of _just about_ bothers him, but not really and really not for long because he’s up on the knife-edge now like something is physically pushing him there. So close it’s hard to even speak. 

 

But he does. He does speak though. Because he’s a good guy at the end of it all, or so he tells himself. “Um,” Tony says, with shivering measure, “that is… quite fucking mutual, Steve? I am… you can’t tell this because of my… impeccable self-possession, obviously, but Steve… I am less than five seconds away from blowing my load all over your hand.”

 

Steve takes this confession with utter solemnity. “Okay,” he says. “Okay, good.”

“Stevie,” Tony says. He chokes. “Stevie. I wouldn’t ask you this but I kind of have to ask right now, okay? For my peace of mind. On what planet… by what kind of reasoning could you have possibly thought I wasn’t into this?”

Steve’s face is still pressed against Tony’s neck and the stillness of his hand is _killing_ Tony. It’s worse than when Steve was actively jerking him. The _anticipation_ of it. It’s awesome-horrible. It’s awribble. 

“It’s not that,” Steve says. “It’s, um…”

 

Tony waits. He doesn’t even say ‘it’s what?’ He just waits.

 

It pays off though. “It’s, I want to fuck you.”

 

That’s adorable. It’s _adorable_. Oh _god_. “Oh, honey,” Tony says. “It’s happening, Stevie. We’re doing it.”

“No, I mean… like I want to…”

 

Oh, _right_. “There isn’t anything to fuck with.”

“There is,” Steve says. “Vaseline.”

 

Tony almost laughs again. But he’s really glad he doesn’t because if he did his body would move against Steve’s hand and then he might actually die. “You just have some Vaseline in your studio.”

 

He feels Steve nod.

“For no reason.”

“It helps get the ink off my hands, I just… sorry.”

“Honey,” Tony says, again. “On a list of things to apologize for, forward planning is not…”

 

Steve’s hand moves. Tony doesn’t react. It takes everything in his power but he doesn’t react. “Man with a plan. And that’s not a thing you should…”

 

Steve’s hand moves again. “Yeah?” he says. 

 

It sounds sly. Tony is about to say something when it moves a third time.

“ _Holy fucking shit, Steve.”_

“So, that would be okay with you?”

“ _Yes it would be fucking okay with me_.”

“But aren’t you just about to come? If you come now and then I do it, it probably won’t be that good for you.”

 

Steve’s leaned back to say this and everything is suddenly suspended and it is _fucking perverse_.

“Steven,” Tony says. “Stop quibbling and stick it in me.”

“But…”

“Do not have moral quandaries with your hand on my dick, Steve. We are not at war, this is not a combat decision, we are doing it on your desk, and just… do not do that.”

 

Steve snorts. Grins. “I’m blue-balling you now, huh?”

“You… _fuck you, Rogers_.”

“Can you hold it?”

“Yes I can hold it,” Tony says. “I’m _fucking Iron Man_.”

 

Steve outright laughs. It’s gorgeous. Irritating, but gorgeous, because Steve is really pretty, and his laugh is one of the prettiest things about him. And then he squeezes, and then he lets go, and actually thank fucking god he does because Tony was bluffing before, he really was probably bluffing about that, and now he’s got a minute to pull it in and remember his years of training. Think horrible things, Tony. Put a downer on it. 

 

Shit. Not that horrible, though. God, jesus, is there any middle-ground between howling guilt flashbacks and imminent ejaculation? Steve has dropped out of his eyeline, he’s getting the Vaseline out of a drawer under the desk or something, and Tony is scrunched up on the desk and he doesn’t know what he’s doing. What a fucking idiot. Trying to pull himself out of the moment like that, forgetting – you know, like an idiot does – to put some work into moderating what’s always on the other side of it. _Always_ on the other side of it. He forgets that. Because he tries to forget about it. And then there it is. 

 

Get a hold of this, Stark, he tells himself. You are fucking Iron Man and you do not lose your shit during sex. Not in any of the ways that people lose their shit, because you are not other people, you are fucking Iron Man and you are fucking on Steve’s desk right now, and _so help me_.

 

Steve pops back up from under the desk momentarily. He’s smiling widely, but it freezes instantly when he meets Tony’s eyes. “Hey, what’s going on?”

“Nothing, nothing,” Tony says. “I’m fine, get up here.”

“You really don’t look fine.”

“It’s good, Steve. We’re good. We’re good.”

“We can stop, anytime.”

“I was just…” Tony says. “I was trying to cool it a little by thinking unsexy thoughts and it kind of ran away on me.”

 

Steve watches him.

“I really love you, Stevie. You know that, right? Like, really.”

“Yeah, I do,” Steve says. He’s very still. He doesn’t even call Tony on the fact that he pretty much only says that when they’re doing it. Usually he’ll make a joke about that, just point it out before getting on with things, but he doesn’t now. “What kind of unsexy thoughts?”

 

“Let’s not,” Tony says. “Let’s definitely not talk ourselves out of this supremely awesome desk fucking, because I am very into it.”

“You kind of look like you’re losing it there.”

 

It’s a dual statement. He means Tony’s hard-on, but he also means Tony’s brain. Tony responds to the first part only. “So put my tax dollars to work, huh? Supersoldier it back up for me.”

 

Steve frowns. Tony is working it, he’s working the persona - the smile, the brazenness, this is all part of Brand Tony. But it’s true too, and the more he does it, more true it comes. Partly because he can see it working on Steve. When he takes himself in hand, he can tell on no uncertain terms that Steve might like doing his good-hearted boyscout bit, but he _loves_ the dick, and he sure likes looking at Tony while he’s doing stuff with the dick too. 

 

And that’s good. It’s _good_. Yeah, he’s gone a little soft. But not that soft. And Steve’s face, the way he is trying really hard to be a good guy but it is slipping, it is slipping with each movement of Tony’s hand, is helping quite a lot with that, actually. 

 

“Tony…” Steve says.

“Uh huh?” 

Steve swallows. “Nothing.”

“This turning you on, Stevie?”

 

Steve is bright red, but it’s absolutely not embarrassment. He looks angry, almost. He swallows again.

“Yes.”

“So want to do something about it?”

“Just… maybe keep doing that.”

 

“Doing this?” Tony asks, and does that. He wonders what would happen if somebody walked in right now. While he’s sitting on Steve’s desk effectively jacking himself, while Steve is half-crouched, waiting, watching him, furiously spellbound. There’s a hell of a surge at that thought. Tony doesn’t actually want that to happen, he doesn’t, but the ridiculousness of that, the sheer ridiculousness of that imagined moment, the idea of someone opening the door to a tableaux vivant of the two of them in Steve’s studio where he’s playing sweet, baby Steve like a dirty violin is just _stupidly_ erotic and now he is getting really goddamned hard again. 

 

“Come up here,” he says. Steve does it without a word. One fluid motion. Steve’s making a guttural sound in his throat and it seems like a long time since they’ve kissed each other, but despite all those noises, Steve is weirdly hesitant. The contact is highly favorable, but Steve’s lips tremble a little, like he’s holding a lot back, and his hands don’t really grip so much as they brush. 

 

It’s frustrating. Tony can feel Steve’s rigidity, in general and specific, and he knows he should be seeing more benefit from it, so he tries to force the kiss some, and it half works. 

 

Then Steve says, “Tony?”  
“Yeah, honey?”

“I really love you too.”

 

Tony grins. “You’re only human.” He thinks a second. “Super human. Whatever. When I’m right I’m right.”

 

Steve snorts. He kisses Tony indulgently, like he’s granting him a favor, but his hands are starting up with the right kind of sex stuff again. Solid grip. Movement from the other hand, up under Tony’s jacket. He’s right in between Tony’s thighs, where Tony can squeeze him, and it’s nice. It’s really nice. 

 

And then, “and you pretty much always think you’re right,” Steve says, in that sassy fucking voice of his and bam. Jesus. There it is. Tony wants to fuck that sass right the hell out of him and that is the _only_ fucking thing he wants. 

 

“Because I pretty much…” he grunts, because it’s getting hard to talk now, because their mouths aren’t apart for long anymore, he’s talking in spurts. “Because I pretty much always am right.” 

 

Steve snorts again. He’s teasing him. Steve is _taunting_ Tony like he thinks he can get away with that shit and Jesus. _Jesus hell Christ._ That is enough fucking talking. Steve is shifting up. Steve is kissing his mouth, slow at first again, but then _fucking not slow_ and Steve is probing his lips apart with his tongue. Tony puts an arm around Steve and pulls him in again and slides his other hand down the front of Steve’s body, feels another one of these tell-tale ripples course through it. One of Steve’s hands is snaking around to Tony’s ass too, and uh huh, Tony thinks. Yep. Definitely yes. Fucking come at me, Captain.

 

So this is all going to plan. It’s on track. It’s better than on track, it’s the fucking Chattanooga sex train, and there is only one problem. There should not be _any_ problem, because this basically perfect right now, but there is a problem, and Tony can’t let go of it. Fondling and serious making out on one level, but on the other, there’s some weird issue going on, and it nudges at him, and he runs his mind over it like it’s tactile. Tony is _thinking about things_ now, and he’d really rather not do that when he has stuff to do in Steve’s pants, especially considering he’s already half-blown it once and he’s not going to get another chance at desk-fucking. 

 

But he is doing it, because he is Tony Stark and his math is never wrong.

 

(Literally never. That was one of the ways the pre-school knew he was a genius, because one wrong integer in a pattern-string of numbers, it would stick out for Tony like it was painful. He built his first circuit board when he was _four_ , for fuck’s sake. Literally never).

 

Okay. So it’s not Steve’s earnest declaration of loving him. That happens all the time, he can set that, that’s a control for the variable. But it’s something like that, that ballpark (heh). 

 

Specifically it’s that sometimes, when Steve smiles like he did, when he groan-laughs like that, like he thinks Tony is funny in spite of himself; when he unfolds himself out from upstandingness just a little bit because Tony has got under his skin enough to make it comfortable, it’s apparent that Steve actually, really, with physical truth and despite encouragement to the contrary, likes Tony Stark The Person quite a lot. 

 

And Tony maybe actually likes that more than he would like to like it and he is probably going to have to say something about it.

 

Yeah. He is. He’s brushing his fingers over Steve’s jeans, and they’re straining again, but he stops doing that and he separates his mouth from Steve’s and leans back to say it. “You like me too, huh? It’s not just love, right?”

 

Steve doesn’t say anything. He follows Tony back into the lean and that hand is pretty tight on Tony’s ass now, and his fingers are spread, and his facial expression is one of absolute involvement, occupation in what he’s doing. He doesn’t seem like he’s even heard Tony. Probably because he hasn’t. Probably because all of this crap has happened in Tony’s head while they’ve been going at it, but Steve has just been getting into things like a normal person.

 

But it’s a thing now. Like pretty much everything else he’s said today, Tony wishes it wasn’t a thing, but just like all of those other things, it is a thing, and he needs an answer for it. 

 

“Huh?” he says, for emphasis. “Steve?” 

 

Steve gives a short, breathy laugh. “Yes, Tony, I like you.”

“I’m serious, Rogers, don’t fucking laugh at this, it’s a fucking tragedy. My parents didn’t even spend my birthdays with me. _I built robots for friends, Steve_. That’s how sad this is. And now you’re laughing at me. You. You’re laughing at me. You don’t call, and then you laugh at how fucked up I am from my sad childhood. I might not ever recover from this.”

 

Steve is really laughing now. Like, outright, actually laughing. He’s still trying to paw at Tony but it seems like it’s getting difficult for him because of how funny he finds this. “Could you ever… could you please just fucking shut up for once in your fucking life?”

“ _Steve!_ ” Tony says, faking shock. “ _Language!_ ”

 

“‘Not just love’,” Steve says, through laughs. “How does your mind even work? What the hell do you think love is, anyway? Because it’s about the best I’ve got to give you, and if that’s not good enough for you, well... I am really sorry, I guess. Sucks to be you.”

 

Tony feels that ‘sucks to be you’ is a little below par for this conversation. He implies this, but doesn’t outright say so, in his response. “My mind, Steven,” he says, in a voice that is about 70-90% pure pretension and really only a little genuine hurt, “works like the mind of a genius. Because it is the mind of a genius, because – are you ready for this Steve? Because it is, in fact, in the head of a genius.”

 

Nothing but the giggles from Captain Composure over here. Tony sighs. “Give me the data, okay, don’t hold out. I just need to run the numbers. You definitely like me, right?”

“ _Yes_ ,” Steve says. “ _Obviously_.”

“Well, okay.”

“Really okay?”

“Yes really. So stop dicking around, Steve, and… do some dicking.”

 

Steve wince-laughs. “That’s _really_ bad. That’s your worst one.”

“I can do worse.”

“Maybe don’t though?”

“I’m going to ask you this seriously: do you think you can stop me? Do you really think you can stop me from making dick jokes? Because, being fair, I am _reasonably_ good at making dick jokes.”

“Pretty sure I can.” 

“I hear a lot of talking, I don’t see a lot of action.”

“You’ll get some action.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Tony says. 

 

Steve grabs him forward. Hard, sharp, one hand on Tony’s ass, one hand on his hip. “Yeah,” he says. _Awesome_ , Tony thinks.

 

“Hey now,” Tony says. “Hey, be gentle. I’m old, Steve, I have an old person’s fragile feelings.”

“You know what, Tony? Sometimes I get really paranoid, you know? I hadn’t really done any sex before you, I mean, not really. Not stuff that counts. And I thought I was really bad at it, and you were some kind of talented mastermind and you’d get bored with me or you wouldn’t be happy.”

 

Tony thinks about this. “I am a talented mastermind.”

“Sure,” Steve says, sly-faced, grasping Tony’s thigh, leaning up on him. “You’re pretty good at what you do, old man. But I think I’m okay at this.” 

“For a 90 year old virgin.”

 

Steve laughs, but Tony knows he’s missed the mark a little. He brushes Steve’s hair back from his face, kisses his mouth, and it’s the right thing to do, because Steve blush-smiles, and that tiny bit of hurt in his eyes goes away.

“You’re more than okay at this,” Tony says. “My skills are all technical. Yours are intuitive. You’re an artist, Stevie. You’re sex Picasso.” 

 

Steve doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t laugh either. Tony expects him to laugh, so for a second he almost worries, but then he kisses him, and Steve is definitely down with that, and when he pulls out from it Steve’s smile is soft and his gaze is very intent on Tony, and it’s fond to the point that it’s almost kind of uncomfortable and he looks away from it. One of Steve’s hands is doing something Tony can’t see, but the other one – wow, okay! Has started gently, very, very gently, fingering Tony’s ass.

 

Tony taught Steve to do this. Both ways, visual and kinesthetic, because he’s a good teacher like that, and because Steve is a good learner, and because it’s generally a fine thing to put things in Steve’s ass from time to time. So he recognizes his own technique here, smugly. Small movements, then deep ones, soft brushes against the edge of it. There is some sleight of hand going on with the Vaseline back there - that’s probably what was happening with Steve’s other hand, because the finger’s gone for a second, and then it’s back and now it’s sticky and slippery and it’s making its actual way in there. And Steve’s other hand is back in the action, up under his jacket at the back again. He’s leaning forward, he’s leaning into it. Tony feels that, even though he’s not watching. This is _pretty okay_ , Tony thinks. Just one finger, and then two. Good work, young grasshopper. Appropriate learning. Nicely done.

 

But then, Steve is adaptable. That’s a practical, true thing about Steve. 

 

Steve who, meanwhile, is still watching him, dead on. 

 

_Jesus_. He’s really looking at him too. Tony had forgotten about that, and he tries to make a face in response to it, like, _whatever Rogers, this ain’t even sexy_ , but it is totally not working and he doesn’t even know why he’s doing it. Because yeah, Steve is okay at this. And Steve is in love with him. And Steve’s baseball shirt is soft cotton but it’s still kind of chafing, and he reaches over Steve’s shoulder to kind of pull it up so they can have skin on skin contact. The looking-at-him thing is weird, but whatever, everything else is golden. 

 

Steve makes a noise when Tony lifts the shirt. He pushes against Tony like it’s really a genuine pleasure for him to feel Tony’s hard-on against his bare stomach. He kisses him, in a kind of shuddering way, on the part of Tony’s neck right close to his collar, and then he slots his face in there, against Tony’s neck again, like he’s a little afraid. 

 

Tony’s stomach clenches, hard. His heart does weird things that would make him worry about it if he wasn’t so used to them by now. This is not sassy Steve anymore, this is burrowing animal, and Tony can feel, against his neck, a combination of lips and breath that lets him know Steve’s mouth is open. Panting. And he is hard inside his jeans, Tony can feel that on the very inside of his thigh every time Steve moves. Slowly, slowly, into Tony’s body, not just doing this sensational fingering business with the ass, but also kind of rubbing himself against Tony, like he’s doing it in anticipation of coming up into him. 

 

Tony wants to grab Steve’s junk. He’s almost nauseous from how much he wants Steve’s cock in his hand. But he can’t even move to do it, he’s just stuck there like his body is a radioactive weight. Steve’s hiding himself against Tony. Steve’s curled up on Tony, as if Tony’s presence is just way too much for him, like Tony is this special treat, like Steve is this vulnerable little being and it’s so _fundamentally_ at odds with his body and his battlefield persona and it is heart-rending and stomach-churning and pulse-racing and Tony has no idea, literally no idea at all, what to do about it or why it makes him so hot to understand that it is happening. 

 

These feelings are not news. They have come up before. They usually do, in fact. This is usually the exact moment of fucking where he’d take over, where he’d change the direction of the action, where he’d speed it up, or he’d jump out of the clinch to suck Steve off, which inevitably gets wild because Tony is good at it and because Steve is a sexual innocent who still thinks a blow job is _especially_ dirty (Tony remembers finding that out and how he had to force himself not to laugh about it. Seriously? he wanted to say, but didn’t. Fucking in the ass seems logical to you, but not blow-jobs? Like you never had even one blow-job in the army? Come on). 

 

But he doesn’t do it. At first he doesn’t know why he doesn’t, and that kind of scares the crap out of him for a split second, because Tony does _not like_ not knowing things, _at all_ , but then he does know, and it’s okay, he’s okay about it and they’re okay. Steve’s burrowing and his little sounds. Steve’s hand on Tony’s skin, gripping. His fingers moving, losing their gentleness even though it’s obvious he’s trying to hold on to it. It’s good, basically. Specifically, it’s too good, and usually when it’s too good like this, Tony has to drive the train off the tracks in case _feelings_ happen. 

 

And that is maybe something he’s not going to do this time. Because he _likes_ this. He likes that Steve likes this so much, and that Steve likes Tony so much, as Tony is now kind of embarrassed/pleased he took the time to formally establish. Tony has a track record now of exactly two relationships, and intimate sex has this completely other thing going on with it from buffet fucking. That is about excitement and newness, but this is very much about this ridiculous, over-stimulating _romance_ or something. It has happened with two people in Tony’s life so far and it has mostly been too much for him, but it’s also just pretty all-around good when Tony can be mature enough to just fucking handle the situation. 

 

Which he’s pretty sure he can. And is, in fact. And it’s fine. Because he’s a fucking fifty-year old man and not actually a teenager like they joked about. He is old enough to be able to handle having some feelings about his boyfriend while they do it, for fuck’s sake. Jesus, honestly. It’s not like he’s going to have to say them aloud. It’s _fine_.

 

Seriously (he is telling himself), as prepossessing as this shit is, as weird-intense-scary as it is to let himself have _feelings_ about fucking on a desk with Steve, Tony is relaxing into it, and it really is pretty alright. Steve can’t hear his thoughts. He doesn’t know that Tony is having to do work in his head to let this happen, he’s just fingering and making little kisses, and he doesn’t know anything he shouldn’t know. Tony is Iron Man in a very literal sense right now, but he also has this warm sensation somewhere deep down inside of him somewhere, and those two things are kind of running together now, and that is actually, honestly, pretty alright. 

 

And _god_ , Steve’s general body at this angle and his back, particularly, that is really some very good stuff here. Tony has his hand on Steve’s back, sliding it down over this smooth, steady curve of the muscle and into the hollow above Steve’s ass and it’s _good_. Steve’s body is _sculptural_. His jeans are low slung on his hips, and Tony can’t reach all the way under them at this angle unless he moves his arm out and then under Steve’s, which he’s not going to do because that arm of Steve’s is busy and he doesn’t feel like getting in the way of it. When Steve moves, Tony feels the flow of it, like those fingers of Steve’s are suffusing him with lightly warmed valium.

 

Besides, doing it this way, this weird-but-okay super emotional feelings-y way, he feels like this is Steve’s lead here, and the classy thing to do is just let him go with it. And it’s not exactly sex Picasso – that was a small white lie, for Steve’s benefit - but it is definitely exactly Steve. It’s exactly Steve. Even this clunkiness, and this non-fluidity and this tender, tender awkwardness are exactly Steve. Because everything that comes here belongs to Steve. 

 

And everything Tony is touching is pure skin. What is this thing with Steve and no underwear? No undershirt, either. Just baseball shirt and jeans and boots. Does he get too hot or something? Tony doesn’t even know if he wears socks. He’s actually thinking about that, brushing his fingers over Steve’s skin, lazily wondering if he can remember Steve putting on socks, and he’s pretty sure he can, but what if he’s stacking the data and it’s model driven science now? Really socks? And then Steve slides in a third finger and Tony thinks, _woah_. 

 

There’s a simmering edge to this tenderness now. Like his body isn’t even there anymore. Like it’s just a super-sensitive delivery mechanism for some strange, electric expanse. His thoughts are jumbled and not in proper order and tumbling into each other and not making any sense. Socks? It’s hazy. It’s weird. “Steve,” he says, trying to get on top of it. It doesn’t work. Steve is kissing him, he’s kissing him on the mouth, and it’s getting frantic and that rubbing is getting intense and Tony’s cock is sticky and a little raw so he pulls back, but Steve won’t let him, and he shoves a forth finger in and pulls Tony hard against him and makes a little grunt. A possessive grunt. 

 

It’s _excellent_. Tony is making a few sounds of his own right now. 

 

In fact, he moans right into Steve’s mouth, and maybe that’s what Steve was waiting for because he slides Tony back against the desk and pulls him forward again and pulls his pants right down over his shoes, business like. Tony is amused watching this but he’s also fed up with how long it takes, because really? Because there have to be things like clothes in this limitless world? Stupid physics. Stupid laws of reaction. It’s all stupid. These things that work off dynamics, he thinks, when really it would be better if they worked in synchronicity. 

 

He’s a binary thinker, he knows. Binary at lighting speed, sure, but binary at its base. Works or doesn’t work, those are the only two forces Tony understands, and that’s why he’s good at machines, and that’s why he can’t put the two parts of this thing together, this liking each other but then fucking each other as well. Steve doesn’t separate the world into two like Tony does, so this is easy for him, but it’s complicated and confusing for Tony because intimacy is a grey area and he sucks at it, and he sucks at it because he sucks. 

 

What a pile of philosophical bullshit, though. Tony’s just floating around in there in this _contemplation_ , when Steve, who is skinning himself out of his jeans, with his goddamned determined Captain America face again, is one of the most morally certain people Tony has ever met. Steve is all about the binary, Tony thinks. The only grey areas for Steve are in ink washes, and Tony is only thinking about this garbage because he has, he senses, in the minute it took to separate their bodies and deal with the pants situation, allowed his anxious, analytical consciousness to worm its way back into the room. 

 

Well good luck to it, frankly. Steve has to kick off his boots to get his jeans off (are they skinny jeans? Is Steve wearing _skinny jeans_?) and he does, in fact, have socks on, but that is considerably less interesting than the fact that he is _really hard_ and his ass is _really tight_ and his thighs are like the flanks of some mythological demi-god and covered in fine, downy hair. Steve is _quite fucking good looking_ in point of fact, and he is poised to fuck Tony in the ass like _right now_ , so yeah, fuck conceptual physics actually. Be an artist, baby, Tony wants to say. Do whatever you want. 

 

Steve comes forward. He lifts Tony’s leg over his shoulder, which Tony is not exactly shocked by but is definitely pleased about. And he kisses Tony again and Tony leans awkwardly forward for it, in that he is fifty fucking years old and no gymnast, and gives Steve a little practical assistance with the greasing up process. Steve actually knows what he’s doing there (also from Tony’s training, thank you) but that’s not why Tony does it. He does it because he wants to cop a feel (and who wouldn’t?) and also because Steve appreciates it. That Steve appreciates it is very, very visible on Steve’s face. 

 

Well, Tony appreciates it too. He likes Steve’s open-mouthed wonder, and the feel of Steve’s slick, warm cock, and the clench of Steve’s hand on his calf. It’s a mutual appreciation society. It is one hundred percent, stars-aligned fucking excellent, and this fucking in the ass on Steve’s desk is set to be – not to labor the point but - _pretty okay_. 

 

Or so he thinks. He’s not wrong, exactly, but the thing about romantic sex like this, which Tony forgets because he doesn’t do it that often, is that he has a strong tendency to forget technique when he does. Some of this stuff is conscious self-control, practical reaction, it’s not all about muscle memory, and so he forgets. And after all that, after all this build up, all this banter and intimacy and complication, Steve doesn’t even really get to do it to him, because Tony comes right away like machine-gun fire almost as soon as it starts. 

 

Really. Steve slides a little of the way in and it’s shocking and incendiary and that good kind of painful and then there are a couple of short, shallow thrusts, and they’re good too, so good. There’s friction between Tony’s cock and Steve’s stomach, and Steve waits, watches, waits, and then there’s a long, slow draw into Tony’s body and then Tony blows the deal. 

 

He doesn’t just come, either. He _comes_. He collapses. Steve catches him just before his head hits the wall and pulls him hard up against his chest and he laughs and he murmurs something but Tony has no idea what, because, well, because obviously _coming_ is going on. After that first initial rush of exquisite blackness, each subsequent ebb, forced into that tight crush against Steve’s body is overwhelming. Like whole-body, blissfully overwhelming. To the point where he’s not checking the sounds he makes (whoops) and he’s not doing the things to keep sex going, and it actually takes him a little bit of a while to come around to recognizing that Steve is still hard inside of him and that he should probably do the decent thing and apologize for that. 

 

“Sorry,” he says, eventually. “Wow, that was… that was really not my finest hour.”

 

Steve laughs again. Like he’s not even pissed off, Tony thinks. How is he not even pissed off after all of that? But he’s not. “Don’t worry about it,” Steve says, and he doesn’t look mad at all. He looks pink, and touched, and even thrilled, actually, as if maybe he really likes that Tony just came all over him like he wasn’t even thinking. The way he touches Tony’s face, gently like that, the way he kisses him, it kind of gives that impression. “Hey,” he says. “Hey, don’t worry about a thing.”

 

“You can still finish,” Tony tells him. 

“Yeah?”

“Yeah, just pull back from me a little or I’m going to chafe.”

“Of course, but…”

 

“Don’t you want to?” Tony says, and he pushes his ass against Steve a little. 

Steve blinks. 

“I mean if that’s not doing it for you, there are other options.”

“No, I… I really want to.” 

“Well, go on then.”

 

He feels Steve slide into him again, and yeah, okay, it is a little less excellent now that he’s already blown his load, but it certainly isn’t bad, and mixes up with the left-over muscle contractions from coming and that has its own kind of nice feeling. 

“Sorry, Stevie,” he says, again. 

 

Steve frowns. “Come on, Tony,” he says. “It’s no big deal.”

“I just mean that I could’ve probably…”

 

Steve cuts him off. “Tony,” Steve says. “I’m concentrating.”

 

Tony cracks up. Because Steve is fucking him in the ass and he is _serious_ _about it_ and that is actually pretty unavoidably hilarious. Steve’s stern little face and his determined hero jaw and his big old arms, not wanting to be interrupted while he’s fucking Tony in the ass, how could you not want to laugh about that? 

 

Steve doesn’t think it’s funny. “Shut the fuck up, Stark,” he says, sharply, and Tony does his level best to shut the fuck up. It’s hard, though. Because Steve is really serious about this, and that is pretty funny.

 

It gets less funny, by degrees. Tony isn’t ramping up anymore, he’s just placidly experiencing this range of sensation without any goal in mind, but Steve, he realizes, is going for it. And it’s an odd kind of going for it, because he’s obviously trying not to just lose it and start pounding on Tony (which is thoughtful, because when Steve Rogers pounds, he pounds with the full force of military science behind him, and Tony tends to prefer working his way up to that), but it is definitely getting intense for him and that grim determination on his face is starting to look pretty desperate. His cheeks are flushed and his jaw is very clenched, like he’s gritting his teeth, and every thrust he makes seems to make it more visible. 

 

Tony figures he can help out with that. He runs a hand over Steve’s hip and over his ass and shoves a finger in, without so much as a please or a by-your-leave. Steve yelps. And he jerks forward, right on up in there, with his whole body. His eyes go very wide. “Jeez, Tony!” 

“No good?”

“Just… _fuck you, Stark_ ,” Steve says. 

 

Tony grins at it. 

“Yeah,” he says. “Fuck me.”

 

Steve blushes harder and he really jams it in there. “You competitive… you competitive… fucking…”

 

It’s clearly getting hard for him to breathe, in between all this grunting and thrusting he’s doing. “Jeez, Tony,” he says. Just that. Just ‘Jeez, Tony’ again. Feels good. Steve’s still not really pounding it and Tony sort of wants to make him, but at the same time he really does appreciate the restraint and just basically appreciates Steve generally, so he compromises by only moving the finger a little. 

 

Every time he does it, it has a direct and immediate impact. Steve likes it. It is in fact very apparent that Steve likes Tony moving his finger in his ass a whole lot. Because when Tony does it again, he bear-hugs Tony’s whole body and grunts and keeps driving on in there, and Tony throws his arms around Steve too and he makes sure that they stay there, because Steve is apt to get a little shame-faced when he comes if Tony doesn’t watch out for him. He is chafing a little, Tony is chafing, but he knows now that it’s not going to be for long. 

 

Nope, not for long. Steve’s grunting is getting whiney – it’s not a bad thing, just adorably plaintive, as if the universe is holding out on him and it’s painful – and that is tell-tale, that is revealing for Steve, that he mews like a little kitten before he comes. 

 

Like sex is still a big surprise for him, Tony thinks. Like he’d wanted to fuck Tony’s ass and everything, but he had no idea he’d like it quite as much as he does. It’s adorable. That mewling is incredible. Steve is thrusting into him making soft whines and it’s both very, very sweet, and very, very hot and if Tony had more time and was about thirty years younger, he would probably be starting to think about getting hard again. He almost is, actually. That’s almost happening. Maybe it will? Maybe that could be on the cards? 

 

It’s not. Because Steve pushes forward, with urgency, and then Tony feels him come hard inside of him. Sharp, in one rush, and then throbbing, and he buries his face against Tony, and Tony holds him, tight, listening to his frantic breathing, and feeling Steve’s heart pound. 

“There you go, baby,” he says. “There you go.”

 

Steve just pants. His heartbeat slows down pretty quickly, all things considered - that’s a technical issue. Steve’s recovery is fast, the bruise on his face has even healed by now – but he stays there for a minute longer before he pulls out. He does it gently, with a hand on Tony’s stomach, which he keeps there while he feels around for tissues (the Vaseline might have been a big reveal, but the tissues aren’t, in a studio. Steve must use them for a lot of things, for his brushes, for his nibs and so forth. Maybe he even jacks off in here sometimes, Tony thinks, briefly, but doesn’t say). 

 

Steve’s cleaning up is pretty pro and perfunctory (he _definitely_ jacks off in here) and he hands the box to Tony, and he makes use, but neither of them speaks or bothers to pull up their pants, they just get close to each other back into their more-or-less sex position again, which is uncomfortable now that it’s not functional, but Tony is too tired to care. Steve strokes him and kisses him and hugs at him in that sweet, grateful way of his, and it’s very nice and everything, it’s really very lovely, but unfortunately it’s not enough to keep Tony awake for long. _Jesus this is bad behavior_ , he thinks. _I really am middle-aged_. 

 

God. He really is. The last thought he has before he falls asleep is not even sexy. It’s about Steve Jobs and that time Tony met him at a trade fair and nerdily (but accurately) pointed out a couple of flaws in the Macintosh OS. That was in 1984 or something. And Steve is a time-travelling Capsicle, but if he wasn’t one of those, if he was just a regular guy of Steve’s age from this time right now, in 1984 when Tony was at the trade fair, _Steve wouldn’t have even been born_.

 

Sorta not the point though. The point Tony wanted to make with himself was much more to do with Jobs’ whole jeans/turtleneck-at-work thing and how that was really lame, but he really can’t remember what point it was in this moment and actually it probably doesn’t matter that much maybe? 

 

Whatever. The upshot is that basically Tony is an old man, and fucking makes him tired, and he falls asleep.

 

When he comes to, he’s in the only chair in Steve’s studio, fully dressed and with his arms folded. He’s grateful that Steve at least put his pants back on him because Steve is across the studio, at his desk, perched on a stool, eating the other sandwich, just calmly eating this sandwich. The drawings are out, and he’s dressed again, like he hadn’t ever been not dressed. And he’s talking to someone.

 

Girl. With a side-shave, pink hair. Wearing a Rage Against the Machine t-shirt, like they’re not even a shitty band. They’re having this conversation that Tony half-tunes into from the other side of the room, just to check what’s going on with the world before he decides to re-enter it, and then he whole-tunes in because seriously? This is what Steve’s tuition is paying for? 

 

“…Julie Doucet,” the girl is saying. “I mean, _Dirty Plotte_ , the title’s a vagina joke.”

 

“Yeah, I don’t know,” Steve says. “I get that that’s a strong strand in the medium, I know Bechdel did… I just don’t… I don’t know. I can’t claim to be writing a ‘feminist comic’, it’s just a comic about my mom. She was a nurse. She really didn’t make any… vagina jokes to me.”

 

He pauses. He chews. “Actually I think I’m going to draw a clear line on that. I don’t want to make any… vagina jokes about my mom.”

 

“No, no, I know,” the girl is saying. “Just seems to me there’s an inherent problem, like you’re a man telling her story, and in like… indie comics? So it’s like… don’t not do it, but there’s stuff that should be said. You know that stuff in _Maus_ where Spiegelman is sitting at his table and he’s wearing the mouse mask? I think… that kind of stuff? I mean I think you should think about, and you should probably talk about… like in it? That you’re coming at an experience you don’t really understand.”

 

Steve looks like he’s thinking. He nods. “Uh huh, I think I get what you mean.”

“So like, textual exploration.”

“Yeah, uh huh. Thanks.”

“Style’s pretty good though. That’s some good wash.”

“Thanks,” Steve says. “I mixed it with coffee.”

 

“Hi, hello,” Tony says. Steve and the girl both look at him, surprised. 

 

“Hi. Hello,” he says again. “Hi, who are you? Did you just tell Steve how to write about his dead mother?”

 

“It’s okay, Tony,” Steve says. He looks kind of amused.

“Hi,” Tony says. “So who are you?”

“This is Wren,” Steve says. “Wren, Tony. Tony, Wren.”

 

Of course it’s fucking Wren. Tony checks his watch, and he’s exactly two hours late, on the button. His phone is in his pocket and there are going to be a billion missed calls on it, and Tony would like his own sandwich, quite frankly, and he would also like a beer, but instead he is in Brooklyn and he has to get to a meeting in Manhattan, and there are _young people_ here. “Okay, well, hi Wren. Don’t tell Steve how to write about his mom.”

 

It actually pains Tony to pretend that Wren is a real person’s name even for one sentence, but whatever, it’s fine. It’s Brooklyn, it’s art school in Brooklyn, with hipsters and vegetarian sandwich joints, and it was a lot of hard work even finding some corned beef for Steve, and there are girls with weird fake names and _boy_ , is he pissed off about Brooklyn, he realizes. If not liking Brooklyn means Tony is old and unhip then he guesses he is just old and unhip, because jeans in a meeting are one thing but not being able to put meat in a sandwich is just fucking silly, and he’s from _Malibu_. 

 

Whatever her real name is, she seems to be shifting for a response when Steve intervenes for her. “It’s not like that, Tony. It’s my Masters project. I have to think about criticisms.” 

“Rage Against the Machine is a shitty band,” Tony says, meanly. 

 

Wren looks affronted, in that aggravating ‘I think you’re wrong on principle’ way that baby hipsters always look affronted. Young people don’t even have opinions anymore, Tony thinks, they have _politics_. They probably don’t fall asleep after desk sex either. They probably don’t even _have_ desk sex. Only politics. 

 

Sure enough. “Based on what?” Wren says. “Because they’re political?”

“No, because they suck. Not super ‘underground’ either, just saying, if you were going for that ‘cred’.”

“I like what I like,” Wren says. “And I don’t, like, know you at all? So I’m not really inclined to justify it, actually. Especially if you’re going to start the conversation at full-blown posturing asshole.”

 

Fair, Tony thinks. When you’re right, you’re right. He doesn’t care, though. He’s too irritated. “They’re not even metal.”

 

“Tony,” Steve says. He’s one half embarrassed and one half amused, and Tony reels it in. He doesn’t apologize, but he stops talking, out of deference to Steve’s studio. Wren gives Steve a weird look like, right, ha, okay, I see what you mean now, and Tony gets the strong and deeply unpleasant impression that Steve might have mentioned Tony to people at art school before. 

 

Well, he would rather not be here if that is the situation. And also, besides, he has stuff to do. He gets up. “I’m two hours late,” he says. “You’d think when it’s your company that wouldn’t matter, but it does. I’m gonna be in huge trouble with Pepper. Huge. It’ll be bad.”

“I’ll call her,” Steve says. “I’ll tell her to go easy on you.”

 

Tony bets Pepper will just _love_ that.

 

“Your mechanic boyfriend has a company?” Hipster Wren says. 

Steve says, “yep.”

“Wow, Steve, you married up.”

“I mean, he’s not the CEO anymore.”

 

Not funny, Tony thinks. “It’s still my goddamned company, Rogers. It’s still my name on the building.”

 

Steve makes a fond kind of face. Tony has moved enough and is close enough to Steve now that Steve’s able to throw a one one-armed hug around Tony’s hips, and he does that. “I know that, Tony. I’m just yanking your chain.”

“Well, don’t.”

“You’re cranky, huh? Want some coffee or something?”

“Shut up, Steve.”

 

Steve shuts up. His hand moves up and down on Tony’s back a little, which Tony both likes and resents liking, especially since Steve’s got work to do now, and Tony can see it in his eyes. He’s already distracted, looking at his papers. And then his hand’s not on Tony’s back anymore, it’s on his pencil, and Tony, meanwhile, is just tired. 

 

Exhausted, actually. He’d really just like to crawl into bed with Steve next to him and pull the curtain on the day. And it’s three o’clock. There are _hours_ left to deal with. He brushes a hand over his suit, then over his face. Pushes his hair back.

 

“Hair looks good,” Steve says.

Tony grunts in acknowledgement. “Don’t work too hard,” he says, to Steve. 

 

“I’ll probably go pretty soon,” Steve says. “I don’t have any classes or anything.”

 

Tony says nothing. Folds his arms. Slick. Grunts again. 

 

Hipster Wren does kind of a double take then. Tony has been trying to ignore her, but he notices her start. She doesn’t say anything, but for a split second she stares at him and Tony stares back and when that second is over, Tony is pretty sure she knows who he is now, she knows he’s not just Collegial Stevie’s gossip-times boyfriend. _Thank_ you, he thinks, but he doesn’t do anything about it. He can’t even be bothered to smirk, and that’s usually his favorite thing. 

 

“Should I cook something?” Steve is saying. “What do you think? Or do you want me to meet you in the city.”

“City,” Tony says. “Call when you’re ready. I’ll tell you.” 

 

 

“Okay,” Steve says, nodding. There are other things Tony could say in this moment, other, better things. Tender, emotional things like ‘I love you’ and ‘that desk sex was pretty excellent’ and ‘I don’t like it when I miss you’, but he suspects he Steve knows all of that, which is why he’s locking in dinner plans. Tony can’t say that stuff anyway, not with this weird girl in the room, not in the clear light of regular conversation. Better to leave them to it, better get back to the grown-up world. 

 

“Well, bye,” he says. He trusts Steve understands that reference. 

 

Steve does. His eyes light up. He grins. “Bye,” he says, slyly.

 

One more thing though: “Don’t make me come to Brooklyn again, Steve. I mean it.”

 

Tony almost corrects himself after saying that. Don’t make me come _in_ Brooklyn again. Ha. That’d be funny. And slightly, slightly untrue, just untrue enough to make it interesting. He’d almost say it aloud, just to watch Steve’s reaction. But he doesn’t. 

 

“Okay,” Steve says, still grinning. About this whole thing, probably, sassy little bitch (and yes, bitch. Because fuck college). “I’ll be home tonight.”

“Good,” Tony says. 

“Hey, I love you,” Steve says. 

 

Whatever, Tony thinks, as he leaves. It’s not news. 


	2. Dinner in the City

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which bad things happen to Steve and Tony reacts.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm now aware that canonically, Tony and Rhodey met in school. At the time I wrote this, I was running on the movies alone, and had them meet in Kuwait. I probably should have fixed this up, but didn't, so there's a tiny little bit of AU.

They don’t get to have dinner in the city. 

 

That’s because around the time they ought to be thinking about dinner in the city, Steve is getting shot, and then after that he’s having surgery. 

 

Tony finds this out in Pepper’s office. They’ve gone there after his meeting to hash out some details over a pretty decent scotch. Pepper’s looking good. She’s cut her hair so it’s shoulder length, and her tight little grey suit is working for her too. Red lipstick. She’s smoking. Tony’s hassling her about it. 

 

That’s what’s happening at around the same time Steve is getting shot by someone who knows who Steve is when he’s not at art school. Pseudo-citizen-SHIELD will be tracking this guy for days afterwards. And he’s not alone. Of course he’s not, it’s political. And of course it is. There are superheroes for real now, they’re known quantities, it couldn’t ever not be political. They were all of them idiots for ever thinking it could. 

 

But Pepper and Tony don’t know any of that right then. Right then, Pepper is smoking, and Tony is saying, “have I said that I hate the smoking? I hate the smoking.” 

 

He’s saying this at almost the exact moment that the fourth bullet goes in. That one’s the kicker. The other three were fine, but the forth one they’ll have to dig out of Steve’s body under anesthetic. Meanwhile, Tony and Pepper are in Pepper’s office, and Pepper doesn’t say anything. She just smokes and reads blueprints. She’s not _exactly_ pointedly ignoring Tony, but she almost is. 

 

“It’s a disgusting habit,” Tony says. “Those things will kill you.”

“You say that like I didn’t live in a house with you.”

 

Fair, Tony thinks. Mean, but fair. “Stark Tower is a non-smoking workplace,” he says. “People make microchips here.”

 

“So I won’t smoke in the labs,” Pepper says. “This is my office, Tony.”

“And it’s my tower.”

“It’s Stark Industries’ tower, actually, and I…”

“Of the two of us, though, just, you know, for fun, which of us is actually called Stark? It’s me, right? Is it me?”

“Okay, Tony.”

“It’s bad for you. Quit.”

 

Pepper slams down the blueprint she’s holding. “You hypocritical jerk. You drink like it’s going out of fashion…”

“… never go out of fashion…”

“… and you fly into the _jaws of death_ in a _homemade tin can_ on a _regular basis_ and you don’t want me to _smoke_ because it’s bad for me. _Hypocrite_.”

“And because I don’t like the smell. Don’t forget about that part of it. I care less about you than I do about my building.”

 

Pepper rolls her eyes. “Pity you’re not the boss of me then, huh? Can we get back to work please?”

“I am the boss of you,” Tony says. “I’m your boss, and therefore I’m the boss of you. Quit smoking. That’s an order. I’ll buy you the patches.”

 

And then he remembers that he isn’t Pepper’s boss anymore. And that in fact, by some interpretations, Pepper is actually the boss of _him_. And actually, in fact, also, Tony assumes, Pepper let him be wrong about that for fun, specifically so she could have the pleasure of her next barb. It’s a good one. Good enough to make him miss her. 

 

“I think you’ve forgotten some minor staffing changes there, Steve Jobs.”

“Ouch,” Tony says. “Ouch. _Steve Jobs_.” 

 

Pepper laughs at him. Her laugh is beautiful; red lips and white teeth, and a cynical curve that he _knows_. She smokes and she sips her scotch and it’s all very fun and collegial and The-Way-We-Were-ish with her there in her grey suit, twisting in her chair. It’s fun to the point that Tony is almost, kind of, _maybe_ thinking about asking her about an Auld Lang Syne on the desk or something, thus raising his total of desk sex had today by a percentage of exactly 100. Steve would be upset, probably, but he also wouldn’t have to know about it. 

 

And then the phone rings and Pepper answers it and her eyes go very wide and the color drains out of her face. 

 

When she puts the phone down, Tony is about to ask her what’s up, but she says, “Oh, Tony,” in such a tone that he’s afraid to. It didn’t occur to him that it would be anything to do with his actual non-business life on the phone, but as soon as she says that, he knows, absolutely, that it is. And if Pepper’s here then it’s Happy or Rhodey or Steve. He takes a drink.

 

It’s Steve. Of course it’s Steve. Pepper tells him Natasha is coming up, that she’ll be here any minute, that she’ll take Tony to a SHIELD facility they’re using, because something is going on with Steve. That somebody shot Steve and that it’s turned out to be serious. She tells him that, and then she steps out from behind her desk and puts her arms around him. 

 

Tony doesn’t react. He doesn’t hug back. He doesn’t ask any questions. He doesn’t ask if Steve is going to be okay. He just sips his scotch. 

“He’s not dead and he’s probably not even in danger of it,” Pepper tells him as she moves off. “Probably. It’s very routine surgery. It’s not like yours.”

 

Tony says nothing. 

“Tony?”

“Pepper,” Tony says. “That hug was about one half really sexy and one half incredibly gross. I have cigarette smell on my clothes now. _Gross_. Quit.”

“Nice try, Tony,” Pepper says. “I almost believe you’re incapable of human feeling. Almost.”

“If you say he’ll be fine then I don’t need to worry, do I?”

 

“He’ll be fine,” Pepper says. “And you’ll… well, you’ll be an asshole, as usual.”

“That’s me,” Tony says. “You know, I had a thing once with a girl who called me Anthony Asshole. You should feel free to use that one too.”

“I’d never call you Anthony. You hate it.”

“I’m pretty sure that’s why she did it,” Tony says. “It was one of those weird sex things where we both kind of hated each other.”

 

It takes Natasha minutes to get there. She must have called from the lobby. How fast has this all happened? What even is this thing he’s paying for that it always knows about everything instantly? She just strides into the room, all business. Doesn’t try to hug Tony like Pepper did, or even really demonstrate any sympathy for him.

 

Tony is fine with that. That is about the speed Tony would like things to be right now. There’s a kind of ringing stillness inside of him, like his body is hollow, and he has absolutely no interest in talking about it or being required to show feelings to people. He just sits there and drinks while Natasha and Pepper are talking. 

 

They do that for a couple of minutes. He doesn’t listen to any of it. He kind of feels like he should, but when he tries he can’t hear anything anyway, so he gives up. Then Natasha says “ready to go?” – he hears that; like a computer, Tony responds to specific commands - and he downs the last of his scotch and says, “yep,” and Pepper hugs him again and Natasha drives him to the facility without speaking. Or maybe she says a couple of things. Tony doesn’t hear them properly either though, so he doesn’t bother to answer. 

 

The facility is weirdly innocuous. Like it’s any old private hospital, and not even run by government spooks. The walls in the waiting area are pink, which Tony finds irritating, though he suspects he’s looking for things to be irritated about. Natasha sits him down, then brings a doctor over – it’s not Bruce, it’s just some guy in a white coat - and stands behind him with her arms folded.

 

The doctor tells Tony some stuff. He says that for the most part Steve is like a grizzly bear or a person on a lot of speed – it’s actually possible to shoot him a few times before he goes down. Three of these shots, the doctor says, they would have been painful for Steve but essentially no big deal in the long term. Tony doesn’t say anything to that, because it’s irrelevant. It’s not interesting. He’s not even thinking about somebody shooting Steve. He’s thinking about Pepper’s mouth and Pepper’s smoking. 

 

He can still smell it on him too. Smoking. Nobody should smoke. He remembers being with Pepper in France, where they’re riding bicycles in the countryside. Tony hates it but Pepper loves it and after a while he’s kind of into how much of a kick she gets out of what an uncoordinated nerd he is. He exaggerates it to make her laugh, but he doesn’t have to exaggerate that much. He really hates bicycles. He says so. Pepper teases him. They couldn’t have ridden that far if she smoked back then. 

 

One of the bullets, the doctor explains, is lodged in Steve’s heart. Because Steve’s body – not like a grizzly bear or a person on a lot of speed this time, but particular to Steve – started healing immediately and the bullet is stuck in there and that’s bad news, obviously. It’s potentially fatal bad news. So they’re operating to get it out. They’re cutting open Steve’s heart to get the bullet. 

 

So what, Tony thinks. So heart surgery, so what? I had heart surgery and then I went bike riding in France with my girlfriend. In his mind, the day is basically perfect; warm, and blue and the light is bright but not impossible like it is in here, with these false overheads and these pink walls and he’s not even wearing sunglasses. But he is in France. He’s also wearing shorts in France, and he makes Pepper swear never to tell anyone. 

 

Natasha has noticed that Tony isn’t saying anything. She asks questions, which Tony, when he registers it, sort of assumes are for his benefit. They find out that nobody’s anticipating any problems and Steve will almost certainly be fine. Well, good, Tony thinks. Great. So why is he even down here? He doesn’t even like Steve that much. Their relationship is mostly arguing, and Steve is too young for him anyway. It’s embarrassing. 

 

How long? Natasha asks, and the doctor tells them a couple of hours. Maybe three hours. Tony is sure that about that much time has already passed. He’s just sitting in this chair, in this institutionally pink waiting room, remembering Pepper, and France, and it feels like three hours already. Or three months even, or even more than that, because in his head it’s Pepper’s 41 st birthday and they’re riding bicycles in France and then having a picnic with champagne in the French countryside. 

 

She moans about being well and truly “into her 40s now,” too. At 41! Tony laughs at her. Like that’s even old! But “it’s all downhill from here,” she says, mournfully. “I’m aging. It’s happening. Maybe I should get Botox.” 

 

She’s crazy, Tony tells Pepper, in that other time, in that other place. Look at that ass in her Daisy Dukes, look at her great pins and her tiny red freckles, her perfectly hand-sized tits. She’s beautiful. And Tony is not fussy about the size or shape of tits, but he is, as he tells the Pepper of more than a year ago, in France, snaking his hands up under her blouse, something of “a tits aficionado generally. And these are nice tits, honey. You’ve got really nice tits.”

 

“Gross,” Pepper says, laughing, scrunching up that thin, pouty little mouth of hers. “Pervy. Gross. Rude.” 

 

She’s lying though. She’s got her hand on Tony’s thigh. Her thumb is moving.

“We should get married,” Tony says. “We should have a kid. I don’t even like kids, but I’d have a kid with you. You want a kid? You’d be a great mom. All that experience with me.”

“I’m in my 40s, Tony.”

“Does that mean no kid, or does that mean ‘quick Tony, stick it in me without a rubber on before my lady-parts clock hits midnight?”

 

Pepper laughs again. “You’re _disgusting_. And I’m on Depro, Tony. You know that.”

“So what? Come off it and we’ll have a kid. I’m completely serious.”

“Oh, Tony,” Pepper says. Sweetly, affectionately. “Oh, Tony. Let’s take a little time to evaluate our life before we start changing it.” 

 

She takes his face in her hands and kisses his mouth. He loves her so much right then. So much. When she kisses him, he can taste it. Because she didn’t smoke. 

 

The doctor has left now and Natasha has too, but Tony doesn’t remember either of them doing it. Natasha probably said something to him when she did. He wonders if he answered it. A lot of stuff is hazy. He was in France. He doesn’t have a kid. Pepper thought they should wait to have a kid. But they had sex in a field anyway. It was romantic. The walls are pink.

 

And it was good decision, not having a kid. Because a few months later, Tony is miserable without Iron Man and Pepper leaves him for reasons he still doesn’t really get. So it’s good they didn’t have a kid. That would have been another link in the chain of endless Stark Family Fuckups, having a kid, that’s what it would have been. It’s good they didn’t do it. Pepper’s always been sensible. She’s too sensible to smoke. The smoking pisses Tony off and he doesn’t want her to do it. He’s determined to tell her to not do it, to make her really get it and stop smoking for good. 

 

Natasha gets back and she hands him a coffee. He almost takes it, but then he realizes she isn’t Pepper, so she puts it on the arm of his chair and he picks it up. It’s got bourbon in it. 

“Thanks,” Tony says. 

 

Natasha nods at him, sits down. She doesn’t have a coffee. She folds her arms. 

“Hear anything?” Tony asks her. 

“He’s still in theatre.”

“Right,” Tony says. 

“He’ll be okay.”

“I know that,” Tony says. “I’m not worried about it. Do I look worried to you? I’m just fucking fine, thank you. This is a pain in my ass if it’s anything.”

 

Natasha doesn’t correct him and Tony appreciates it. He doesn’t want to talk to her, he’s busy fucking Steve every night in Steve’s austere little bed in Stark Tower. Stupid. It’s stupid that he’s thinking about that. It’s visceral. The cigarettes to Pepper’s mouth to Steve’s bed. A chain of events in Tony’s head, a strange little line of Stark Family Fuckups. He doesn’t want to be there anymore but he doesn’t want to talk to Natasha but everything is just happening at once and he’s getting sick from it. 

 

He closes his eyes. It’s dark in Steve’s room, and Steve doesn’t know anything about sex and Tony’s heart strains from that recognition. 

 

It happens almost by accident too, that fucking. As a result of Tony’s loneliness and his burning aesthetic crush on Steve and his boundless naïveté, and Steve’s obvious, desperate need for a little male intimacy. But the sex is fantastic even with Steve’s fumbling, and it keeps happening and the feelings are prepossessing, and Tony takes Steve for his first ever lobster dinner – you know, for kicks - and while Tony is drinking a 2008 Gilles Morat 'La Roche' Pouilly Fuissé, Steve tells him his entire sexual history and especially the part that had other guys in it. It doesn’t take long either, because he really doesn’t have much of one. And then he confesses that he is pretty sure he is in love with him, with Tony. 

 

Tony doesn’t say it back. He actually doesn’t say it back for a long time. But he does, as he realizes then and there, after a couple of quips and a moment’s reflection, absolutely feel it back. He tells Steve to try a little of the wine. “It’s not for drinking like getting drunk,” Tony tells him. “It’s for how it tastes.”

“That actually is pretty good,” Steve says. “It tastes… I don’t know, like a food or a perfume or something.”

“Right?” Tony says. “Now eat a little bit of the lobster.”

 

Steve nods very seriously, and then he does it, and Tony watches his face to see if he likes it, and Steve is chewing so intently, so thoughtfully, like it’s a test. And Tony is in love with him. Completely, totally, head-over-heels in love with him. And Steve doesn’t actually like the lobster as it turns out, but he loves Tony, and from then on it’s a real _relationship_. 

 

And then Steve gets shot four times in the chest when he’s at school and one of them is in the heart and his stupid, quick healing body heals over it and they have to do surgery. Oh yeah, and that.

 

His phone gets a text. From Rhodey, whom he guesses has heard about this through official channels. It says, “where are you?” and Tony texts back “hell.” Then he texts “shield hospital nyc” just in case Rhodey actually needs that information. 

 

Rhodey probably doesn’t need that information. With all of that infrastructure he has, Rhodey can probably find Tony any time he wants to. Tony assumes the question was much more a gentle way to find out whether or not Tony had heard about Steve than it was anything to do with Tony’s whereabouts, in case Rhodey needed to be the one to tell him. The proof, he figures, is that Rhodey’s next text comes immediately, like he’d already been typing it, and it just says, “hang in there man i love you.” 

 

Tony texts back with, “no homo”. Rhodey texts, “maybe a little homo”, and Tony actually laughs at it, out loud, which seems impossible and then it seems rude and then it seems terrible. They’re in a hospital. Steve’s in surgery. Tony texts “ilu2”, quickly, and then he puts the phone back in his pocket.

 

“Who was that?” Natasha asks him, about the texts. 

Tony says, “Rhodey,” and Natasha nods.

“Really, thanks for the coffee.”

“It’s fine.”

“Rhodey’s a good guy.”

“You’ve been friends a long time.”

“Yeah,” Tony says. “I met him when… you know, when I was an arms baron. He was running some stuff in Kuwait. Do you know about Kuwait? How old are you anyway?”

“30,” Natasha says. “I’m 30. I know about Kuwait.”

“Is that your real age, or is that espionage.”

Natasha smiles. “I’m really 30.”

 

“Do you know how old Steve is?” Tony asks her. 

“He’s 26,” Natasha says. “Unless he’s 96.”

“I’ll tell you, 96 makes me feel a lot better about myself. There is - check this out, Wilma - there is almost an entire one of you between me and Steve in age. Nearly 30 years. I don’t know what that says about me, but it definitely says something.”

“I’m pretty sure I know what it says about you,” Natasha says.

 

Tony grins. “Why did we never do it, huh? I seriously think we should have done it. You were totally going to do it with me during that Hammer fiasco. And this, now, this fly banter we have going on. We have chemistry. Sex chemistry. Not, you know, the science kind. But I’m good at that too.”

 

“We’re work friends now, Stark,” Natasha says. “We have a collegial relationship. And I don’t think ‘fly’ is an appropriate word choice for a 50 year old white man.”

“I’d still do it with you.”

“It’s basically that kind of crap that means it will never, ever happen.”

“You’re missing out, you know. I am really good at it.”

 

“I’m sure I’m not,” Natasha says. “Actually, I don’t understand why anyone sleeps with you. Even accounting for all of this tedious misogyny that seems to flow out of you like somebody forgot to turn a tap off, every time you hit on me I picture a lazy Tyrannosaurus trying to heft itself into my bed. You’re about half as charming as you think you are. It’s hard to imagine feeling less interested.”

“Steve,” Tony says, “ _loves_ me.”

“That’s his funeral.”

 

Tony is pretty sure Natasha meant to use that phrase as a mere colloquialism. And then he’s completely sure, because it seems to hit her like a ton of bricks and she looks horrified. 

“Tony, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean that.”

“It’s fine,” Tony says. “He’s not going to die. It’s fine.”

“Of _course_ he’s not going to die,” Natasha says, emphatically. “Absolutely not. Everything we’ve been told indicates he’ll be just fine. That’s clearly what we’ve been told.”

“Can you stop with this reassurance thing?” Tony says. “It’s stressing me out. Reassurance is the most stressful fucking thing on the planet. Nobody does it unless they hate you and want you to worry. It’s basically passive-aggressive Gypsy cursing. Steve is fine. He’s fine, so just… shut up about it please?”

 

Natasha shuts up. 

 

“He’s not going to die,” Tony says. He sips his bourbon-coffee. Natasha puts a hand on his forearm. 

“I went into shock about it, but I’m fine now too,” Tony tells her. 

“Right,” Natasha says. 

“I think I dissociated. It’s an anxiety issue. Did you know I had an anxiety issue?”  
  
“Everybody knows you have an anxiety issue.” 

 

Natasha has to go. Their network has leads and she has to go. She doesn’t leave the bourbon and eventually Tony sobers up. He sits in the waiting room for approximately three hours, maybe longer, thinking about Pepper and Steve and France and wine that is from France, and sobering up. He wishes he hadn’t been such an Anthony Asshole to Pepper, because if he hadn’t been, she might have come with him now, she might be sitting in this waiting room with him, waiting to hear about Steve. And then she is there, and she holds his hand. She’s changed into jeans and a sweater and she still smells of cigarettes but Tony doesn’t give a shit about that anymore.

And then, eventually, that same doctor comes to tell them that Steve is in recovery and that everything was a complete success. Steve’s awake already, and he’s not feeling great, but he’s awake, and he wants to see Tony. The doctor has blood on his scrubs. Tony’s pissed off about it. 


	3. The Dysfunctional Heart

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which they are in the hospital and it is grim.

Steve smiles when he sees him. That’s what happens, he smiles. “Hi,” Tony says, and Steve smiles at him, and the nurse who’s with him turns around. 

“So this is the boyfriend, hey?” she says, to Steve, and Steve nods.

 

“Not bad,” she says. She’s old. Older than Tony, probably. She’s the kind of old woman who can get away with making that kind of joke. 

 

Tony closes the door behind him and waits there. The nurse had obviously just asked Steve a question before he came in, because they’ve forgotten about Tony already and Steve’s answering it. Tony folds his arms. Leans against the wall. 

 

“Good,” Steve is saying. “Fine, I mean. I feel okay.”

“I’m going to need you to be a little more specific than that, Steve. How’s the pain? Are you nauseous?”

“Yeah, it hurts,” Steve says. “It’s not… it’s not bad though.”

“Okay,” the nurse says. She makes a note on her clipboard. “When you say it’s not bad, do you mean you can manage it, or do you mean it’s not really bothering you?”

 

Steve doesn’t answer immediately. 

“It’s really important to be clear, Steve,” the nurse says. 

“I mean I can manage.”

“Okay,” the nurse says, and she writes that down too. 

 

“I’m kind of nauseous,” Steve admits. He grimaces. “Kind of… a lot nauseous actually. Is that the anesthetic? I thought maybe I’d get out of that but I… don’t think I did.”

“Possibly not. You think you might be sick?”

“Yeah, maybe.”

 

Tony wonders what Steve would have done if the nurse hadn’t asked him that question specifically, because he gets sick as soon as she hands him an oversized plastic cup to be sick into. It looks unpleasant to the point of being painful, but knowing Steve, Tony thinks, he might actually have just held on to it without that prompt. 

 

And it’s horrible to watch, but Tony’s still not entirely with it yet, so that helps. A lot. 

 

“Tony?” the nurse asks, and Tony looks up at her. _Be a human_ , he tells himself. _You are a human man._

“Yeah.”

“Okay,” she says. “Come on over.”

 

Tony does. Steve’s body is clammy under his hospital gown, Tony can feel that when he touches him. Clammy and warm. “Should he be hot like this?” 

“Steve has a mild post-operative infection,” the nurse says. “He’s running a low fever. It’s nothing to worry about.”

 

She takes the plastic cup out of Steve’s hands and gives him another one. Tony hopes his voice doesn’t sound as strangled as it feels. “He has an infection in his heart?”

“It’s like I’m a kid again,” Steve says, and his smile gets a little stretched. “Oh boy.”

 

Tony doesn’t get it. “From scarlet fever,” Steve explains. _Oh God_ , Tony thinks. 

 

The nurse nods. She looks at Tony like she’s checking him out, assessing him, weighing him up. It’s not nervous, or calculating either, it’s just a business-like assessment of the facts; she wants to know if Tony can handle being told things about Steve. And he can, obviously. But actually, he doesn’t mind being assessed on it. He has, he decides in this moment, a seriously strong aversion to bullshit in the context of Steve having an infection in his heart. Steve shouldn’t even be able to get sick. It’s supposed to be impossible, and as such Tony will tolerate no bullshit on the matter. 

 

He also wishes Bruce were here. He wishes he could check his phone to find out if Bruce were coming. He should have done it already. He’s not allowed a phone in the recovery room. 

 

“Tony and I need to go over some things, okay Steve?” the nurse is saying. “We’re going to step out for a minute.”

“No,” Steve says. “Anything you can say to Tony, you can say in front of me.”

“He’s right,” Tony says. “It’s his heart. He deserves to know about it.”

The nurse says, “fine with me.” 

“So tell me,” Tony says.

 

She tells Steve. “The situation is that we don’t think you’re in any danger, but the issue is that in the same way it’s hard for you to get sick in the first place, it’s hard for us to give you anything for it.”

“That’s why I can’t take Paxil,” Steve says, to Tony, as if he wants to be sure Tony can keep up with all of this. Tony knows about the Paxil already – it’s hard not to know things like that when every single thing that happens in the tower goes through JARVIS -but Steve tells him so matter-of-fact thoughtfully that it’s actually kind of adorable. 

 

He brushes Steve’s hair back from his face and it’s warm. Way too warm. “I know that, Stevie.”

“That’s right,” the nurse says. “And so, the doctor’s opinion is that we shouldn’t try. At this point, we’re basically trusting you to fight it off.”

“Okay,” Steve says. “I think that’s probably right. This is the first… well, it’s the first anything I’ve had since… well, you know. It’s on the chart.”

 

Tony disagrees. “That’s insane. There must be something you can do.”

“It’s essentially the same issue we had with the anesthetic,” the nurse says. “It’s hard to calculate, and it’s hard to administer, the kind of dose that might actually work on Steve. Generally speaking, we treat him like a very large animal, but it doesn’t always work that way. He woke up a couple of times during the surgery.”

 

Tony feels that sentence as viscerally as if she’d burned it on him with one of Pepper’s cigarettes. She’s said it like it’s just some medical facts, just some flat data, but Tony knows, he _knows_ what it’s like to wake up during heart surgery. His hand has tensed on Steve’s shoulder. He tries to loosen it up but it doesn’t go that well. 

 

“It’s okay, Tony,” Steve says. 

“And it’s Doctor Klein’s opinion that there’s no reason to play around if we don’t have to.”

“It’s okay, Tony,” Steve says. “I’m okay.” 

 

Tony doesn’t bother to answer that bald-faced lie. “You’re telling me that you’re refusing to do anything for him. And why isn’t the doctor telling me this? Because he thinks I’ll yell at him? Which I will, by the way. I am – I will tell you this at no extra charge – pretty fucking excited to yell at this guy. Can you go and get him so I can do that? Like, right now?”

 

The nurse doesn’t move. She narrows her eyes a little, but she doesn’t move. “I’m telling you that right now, the opinion of the doctor who is responsible for Steve’s treatment is that letting Steve’s own immune responses handle things is the most sensible approach to take.”

“So what if they can’t handle things?” Tony says. 

 

He feels bad as soon as he says it. He shouldn’t have said that in front of Steve. In fact, he pretty much assumes that that’s why Steve gets sick again. Everything stops for a minute while that happens. 

“Sorry,” Steve says, when he’s done. “Keep talking.”

“Yeah, you should be sorry,” Tony says. “You’re causing a lot of trouble here, Rogers.”

 

Tony is just piling up the instant regrets tonight, because Steve is utterly crushed by that little bit of sarcasm. He doesn’t say anything, but it’s obvious on his face that he is. Tony forgets this about Steve, he always forgets, that Steve is either Absolutely In Charge of Things, or else he is A Problem. That’s a shitty thing to forget right now. 

 

“I’m kidding,” Tony says. “I’m absolutely kidding. Jeez, Steve. That was a really poorly timed joke, which I made because I’m an asshole. I’m an asshole. Please don’t be sorry, okay?”

 

Steve doesn’t answer. He almost looks like he’s trying to, but then the nurse replaces the cup and he gets sick again. He says “sorry,” again too. And then he says sorry for saying sorry. It’s tragic to the point of heartbreaking. Tony sits down on the edge of the bed and puts his arm all the way around him. He brushes the hair out of Steve’s eyes again, with his other hand. The nurse lets him do it, so he figures it’s okay. He doesn’t look where she’s putting these cups either, but he appreciates the efficiency. He shouldn’t have snapped at her. He should apologize to her too, and introduce himself again as Anthony Asshole. 

 

But he’s busy. Steve’s closed his eyes, leaned back into Tony’s body a little. Tony hugs him. 

“Any better?” the nurse asks.

“Yeah,” Steve says. “Yeah, it’s better.” 

The nurse nods again. “Just hold on to that cup there.” 

 

Steve nods too but he doesn’t say anything, and she addresses this part to Tony. “We’re pretty sure they can. And if there’s a problem, well, we’ll cross that bridge when we come to it.”

“Like how?”

“We’ve got…” she looks at the chart. “A Doctor Banner is coming in.”

 

Well, thank god for that, Tony thinks. “When?” 

“He’s been called,” the nurse says. She looks at Steve. “He’s your regular doctor?”

“Yes,” Steve says. “He knows how this stuff works. And he’s a good guy. That’s probably not relevant, I guess. But he is.”

 

“I believe you,” the nurse says. “There’s a clinical psychologist listed here too, do you want me to do anything about that?”

“No,” Steve tells her. 

“What about this VHA contact?”

 

Weird, Tony thinks. Weird that that’s a question. Sam must know by now, right? He didn’t even know that was optional. Then Steve says, “no,” to that too, and Tony thinks, “weirder.” 

 

But Steve is still talking. “But… I had my notebook with me when I was… um. Can you find out about that for me? Did it come in with me? Did somebody pick it up? There was a lot of work in there.”

 

The nurse cracks an actual smile. Tony gets it. Earnest Art Student Steve is pretty universally charming. “They told me you were an artist. Is it drawings for a painting?”

“It’s for a comic book,” Steve says. “It’s about my mom. She was a nurse too.”

“Really?”

“Yeah, she was.”

“I keep seeing these comic books in the regular part of the library,” the nurse says. “They’re about everything now. When I was a girl they were all superheroes.”

“A lot’s happened,” Steve says. “Comics are really different.”

“Well, they’re art, I suppose.” 

“It’s my Masters project. I’m doing…” Steve’s voice breaks a little on the last part of this: “I’m getting an MFA, a Masters in Fine Arts.”

 

And that would be a serious loss for it, that notebook, Tony thinks. That all-night breakthrough, all the notes from that are probably in there. A bunch of diary comic. And if Steve would just use a starkPad then it would all be networked and it wouldn’t even be an issue, but he has to use a pen and paper, because he’s Steve. Old-fashioned, sweet, particular Steve, with his weird ways who’s just really having a bad time right now and kind of wants his notebook. And Tony is an asshole. 

 

“Want me to follow that up for you?” he says “Want me to go do it now? I can’t use my phone in here though.”

“I think…” Steve says. “Um. I think maybe… if you could just stay here for now. I mean, if that’s okay with you.” 

“It’s okay with me,” Tony says. His heart is in his mouth but he says it anyway. “I was going to go bowling, but I can put that off.”

 

Steve doesn’t laugh. _Asshole_ , Tony thinks. 

 

“What time is it, anyway?” Steve asks. 

“It is 1:38 am,” the nurse tells him, in mock precision. Tony wonders if Steve’s mom had a pocket watch like this nurse does.

Steve says, “Late.” 

“It is.”

“You’ve got rounds, I guess.”

“I’ve got rounds,” the nurse says. She smiles again. “I’m going to go, but I’ll be back in a couple of hours. I’m hoping I’ll have your notebook.”

“Thank you,” Steve says. “I mean, for that, but also for everything. You’re a good nurse.”

 

The nurse doesn’t say anything to that, but she smiles again. She shows them the buzzer. She tells them to press it if there’s any problem. Tony nods. His arm is still around Steve. He thinks, fleetingly, about maybe apologizing again, but he doesn’t. Steve is leaned into the crook of his shoulder, and that seems relevant right now. So he swings his legs up onto the bed and gets comfortable. 

 

Comfortable physically, anyway, because the nurse leaves while he’s doing that, and they’re suddenly all alone. Just Tony and Steve in a hospital recovery room, all alone. Tony’s throat is stupidly dry, for some reason. 

“So how are you?” Steve asks him. 

 

Tony blinks. “Not… not hospitalized?”

“You never said what your meeting was about. Something about Malibu, right? Was it okay?”

“Yeah, it was okay. Pepper wants to build another tower out west, and I said fine, and since I already have a lot of property there… all I was doing was signing off on work she’s done. It was no big deal. Nothing special. I didn’t get shot in the chest or have heart surgery, Steve. How are _you_?”

“I’m fine,” Steve says. “You were really in a mood though. I kept thinking I should have taken you to lunch or something.”

 

Tony wonders if maybe everything is actually, impossibly, okay. “I was, huh? I was pretty tired. I used up a lot of energy working you over.”

“I sure won’t look at my desk the same way ever again.”

It’s definitely okay. Tony feels himself start to smile.

 

And then it’s not okay. At all. And the smile falls off Tony’s face because things are just _incredibly_ fucked up right now and Tony is not only an asshole to forget that, but a fucking idiot. 

“If I have… I don’t want to have some kind of PTSD reaction to this,” Steve says. “I’m doing pretty well with that at the moment, generally.”

 

“Are you? …good?” Tony says. And his voice sounds okay, he thinks. It sounds okay and it’s probably okay. His head is full of noise and his heart is racing and he hopes like hell that Steve can’t feel it. But Steve hasn’t noticed anything. He’s just talking, just calmly talking.

“Yeah, I’ve been… it just hasn’t come up as much, and when it has I’ve been able to… talk myself down? I don’t know. It’s felt good. Not good. It’s felt manageable.”

“That’s… that’s great.” 

 

“And I shouldn’t have one about this either,” Steve says. “If you’re going to be Captain America, people are going to shoot you. I know how that works. It’s on me for not being prepared, for just walking around thinking I get to just forget about that and go to art school like I’m not who I am. I shouldn’t have forgot about that. Besides, it’s not like I’ve never been shot in my life.”

 

There are a lot of things Tony wants to say to that, but the most he can manage is, “…right.” 

“But it was just… it was really surprising. I was walking from school to the café, I was going to get a coffee. I just didn’t expect to be shot.”

 

Tony says, “okay.”

“So I think about it, and it should be normal. Well, not normal exactly, but… you know, it should be a routine thing for a guy in my line of work, I just wasn’t thinking about it, but when I do think about it…”

 

Steve presses his lips together. He’s doing command-face. Or he’s trying to. Because actually, he looks to Tony like he is pretty determined not to cry. “When I think about it…”

“You panic.”

“Little bit,” Steve says. His breathing is shaky. 

 

“I get it, Stevie,” Tony tells him. “It’s okay.”

“I’ll have to tell… I tried to tell them everything, but I don’t know if I got all the details, but I think… I just… right now I can’t… I’m trying, you know? I’m trying to focus. People are in danger.”

 

“Hey Steve,” Tony says, as softly as he can, “maybe you don’t need to think about other people right now.”

“There might be something important. Something about the guy, something Nat needs. If I could just think clearly, there might be something important.”

“Then they’ll ask you. But they’re not asking you right now, so let’s just assume that they don’t need.”

“That’s what you think?”

“That’s what I think.”

 

Steve closes his eyes. He lets out a long sigh. “Okay,” he says. “Okay, okay.”

 

There’s no good way to broach this: “So you woke up during surgery, huh?” 

“Mmm. Couplea times.”

“Fun.” 

“It was okay,” Steve says. “I mean, not ideal, but… you know, everybody was pretty good about it. They just… reassured me and put me out again. So, y’know. Okay. On a scale.”

“Well, at least they were good about it,” Tony says. God, and it sounds ludicrous too. It’s not even funny. _Asshole_ , he thinks, again. 

 

“Mostly it made me think about you,” Steve says. “In Afghanistan. That must have been… it must have been pretty bad, Tony. I’m sorry that happened to you.”

“It was okay,” Tony says. “Heart surgery in a cave. It’s not that bad, really. I mean, on a scale.”

 

Steve laughs, weakly. “Okay,” he says. “Okay, okay. I hear you.”

“Just so you know, Stevie,” Tony says, “it’s just you and me here. We’re all alone in this room right now. Nobody but us will ever know what you say to me.”

 

That’s probably a lie, Tony realizes. SHIELD will have had this place bugged to the rafters, and JARVIS will be into that already. They’re on tape, almost for sure. He wonders if Steve is thinking about that too. 

“I just don’t like hospitals,” Steve says. 

“Who does?”

“I don’t see why we can’t just go.” 

 

He says that with a firmness that surprises Tony. Startles him. It’s abrupt. It’s almost angry, actually, and that anger seems to come from nowhere.

“What?” Tony says. “You’re kidding, right?”

 

“It’s just an infection,” Steve says. “If I’m going to be fine then I’ll be fine at home. We can work there. We can get on it.”

“Right. Just an infection. So we’ll wait until it’s through with you, and then we’ll go home.”

 

Steve isn’t satisfied with that. He’s set his jaw into that stubborn line of his, and Tony recognizes it. Steve means business. “If we just got up, if we just left right now, they couldn’t stop us.”

“Probably not, no.”

“So let’s go, okay? Let’s just go now. Stuff is happening out there. We should be on it.”

“People are already on it,” Tony says. “People are all over it. And we will be too, as soon as you can be. But not now.”

“I can now. This isn’t a big deal. Let’s go.” 

 

Tony sighs. “Come on, Steve. Give it a couple of hours at least.”

“There might not be a couple of hours. I’m telling you, we should go now.”

“Steve…”

“It’s not a big deal, okay? I’m not really sick. Let’s go.”

“Steve, it’s kind of a big deal.”

“Let’s go. Now.”

“I’m telling you, we can’t.”

“Let me up, Stark,” Steve says. 

 

There’s an edge to it. A hard edge. There is honest-to-god real fury in that tone, and Tony’s heart has started racing again. It’s just doing that whenever it likes now, he guesses. “Steve…” he says, carefully. “What’s…”

 

Steve brings his arm up. Fast. Over Tony’s body.

 

For a second Tony freezes. For just a second, he’s poised there in this arm-around pose with Steve that would be tender if it wasn’t entirely rigid. If it wasn’t, as Tony feels it is right now, stretched elastic-tight across the median line of some yawning, ravenous space. 

 

And then Steve’s hand starts moving. Starts fiddling with the buttons on Tony’s waistcoat. 

 

He’s still got his stubborn face on. He’s scowling against Tony’s shoulder like a sulking kid, not looking at him. Just fondling those buttons.

“Steve,” Tony says. “What’s going on?”

Steve says nothing. 

“Come on, Stevie. Help me out here. Are you panicking?”  
Steve’s voice is really quiet. “No.”

 

Tony isn’t far away from panic himself. But he ignores the lie and focuses on the problem. “Because it feels to me that there’s some panic going on right now.”

“Just take me home, Tony,” Steve says. “I want to go home, okay? Can we please just go home?” 

“No, honey,” Tony says. “We can’t go home right now. You had a surgery and you’ve got an infection, and we need to stay at the hospital.”

 

Steve looks like he’s trying not to cry again. He tugs one of the buttons, like he wants to pull it off but isn’t going to. Presses it back down. Pulls it up again. “I just really hate hospitals.”

“Yeah,” Tony says. “I know.” 

“I just don’t want to be here, Tony. I just don’t see why we can’t go now.” 

“I know, Stevie. I know you don’t.”

“I’m just… I’m _useless_.”

“I get that it feels that way.”

“I guess,” Steve says, and he takes a long breath and he closes his eyes, “I guess I just feel pretty terrible.”

 

And just like that it breaks. Tony feels himself start breathing again too. “That’s actually pretty obvious, I’m sorry to say,” he says. “But what are we talking here? Is this just crazy terrible, just the panic right now? Do we call someone? Do we call Sam? Or do you mean you had surgery and it hurts, or do you think you’ll get sick again? Because if you’re going to do that I might just get my favorite suit out of the way.”

 

He’s rambling some, he knows it. And it embarrasses him, because it feels like actual ramble, in a situation in which he should be better than to falter like this. This is a little too much Tony’s Anxieties and a little too little performative mastery. But Steve snorts at it. Like it’s funny. It’s brief, and it’s a little overwhelmed, but it’s close enough to the real thing for Tony to trust that he means, or is starting to mean it. “I think I’m done throwing up,” he says. “And Sam’s busy.”

 

Okay, Tony thinks. Okay. “That was fast,” he says. “You shook that off really fast. This other thing is going to be fast too. You’ve got a good engine, honey, and you’ll burn through this like it never happened. And then we’ll get on it.”

 

Steve doesn’t say anything. Just fiddles with Tony’s buttons some more. But he’s dropped the plastic cup on the blanket now, so he must have meant what he said. Tony picks it up, and puts it aside on the cabinet. Multitasking, he thinks. Okay. 

“So tell me a little bit about the terrible.”

“I don’t know, what do you want to know?”

“Just give me a ballpark. Just tell me where the baseballs are.”

 

Steve snorts again. “Tony?” 

“Yeah?”

“Sorry. I don’t mean to… what do you call it? That word you use? I don’t mean to spaz out at you like this. I’m sorry.”

“You can spaz out as much as you want to. You spaz the town red if the mood takes you.” 

“You’re being really nice,” Steve says. “I didn’t know you had it in you. It’s almost creepy. I should get shot more often.”

 

And that is not fucking funny, and Tony almost says so. Except that it _kind_ of is, and that is _kind_ of encouraging, so he reins his indignation in a little. Sort of. “You keep making shitty jokes like that, I’ll shoot you myself,” he says, and Steve almost, kind of, _just about_ smiles. 

 

And then he doesn’t. “This just… hurts a lot.”

“Yeah, I bet it does,” Tony says. 

“I really… I really didn’t much appreciate being shot and having surgery. I mean, I’m glad they did the surgery under the circumstances, but on a scale… I think, y’know, I’d’ve passed on either of ‘em. Given the option.”

Tony half-laughs. “I bet.”

“Hurts like a bitch.”

“I thought we weren’t allowed to say bitch anymore because of sexism.”

“Right,” Steve says. “Right. Well, it hurts like… heart surgery.”

 

Tony laughs. Not loudly or anything, but for real, and Steve opens his eyes to watch him do it. 

 

Tony squeezes him. “It must suck to not have any painkillers, Stevie,” he says. “I actually can’t imagine that. And I’m tough, you know…”

“I know.”

“… but even in the cave they gave me painkillers. It was just codeine or something, but… it was something. I really feel for you right now.”

“Yeah,” Steve says. “I mean, I would do that, give you painkillers. They wanted your brain, right? You’re no good to them if you’re just writhing around in agony.”

“You know, I never thought about like that, but you’re probably exactly right.”

“Jeez, Tony, I’m sorry,” Steve says, suddenly. “I don’t mean to dredge all that up. That was really rude of me.”

 

Tony’s surprised by that, by Steve thinking he should apologize. It’d kind of been intellectual, not even a real experience that he was referring to, this speculation about what people in a cave wanted to do with Tony Stark and his newly dysfunctional heart. But that’s a lie, he realizes. One he’d told without even thinking about it. 

 

It’s okay though. Right now it’s okay. “I think, if I’m straight with you, it was probably going to get dredged up anyway.”

“Still sorry.” 

“Well, don’t be, okay? You’ve got enough to worry about right now.”

 

Steve looks troubled by that, like there’s a bit of mess in there and he can’t quite figure it out. He looks like he wants to say something too, but Tony cuts him off. 

“It’s okay, Stevie,” he says. “You’ll be okay.”

 

Steve is skeptical. “That anesthetic though. I wonder how much they had to give me.”

“It hits everyone like that,” Tony says. “I’m pretty sure I puked a part of my literal insides out after I was put under. And I mean the regular time, cave free, with western medicine and everything. I couldn’t see straight, I had no idea where I was. It was fucking horrible. You’d think they’d’ve come up with something better than that by now. I’d rather be knocked out with a club.”

“Ether,” Steve says. “Or morphine. You’d use morphine in the field. It wouldn’t put a guy out but it would, I don’t know, you know… like you said, it was something.”

 

“I’m a big fan of morphine,” Tony says. “Don’t tell anybody I told you this, but it mixes really well with scotch.”

Steve does that weak little almost-laugh again. It’s encouraging. 

 

“This is an area of mine,” Tony tells him. “Recreational drug use. I used to do a lot of coke too, did I ever tell you about that?”

“You mean cocaine?”

“Uh huh. When I was your age. Back then it was wall-to-wall white powder for Tony Stark. It made me feel fucking invincible.” 

“How come you don’t do it anymore?”

  
“Because I’m not invincible,” Tony says. “I’m a fifty year old mechanic with intermittent heart problems. Coke is for young people and Charlie Sheen. And Charlie Sheen is a pretty bleak mirror for a guy of my age and temperament, let me tell you.”

“And it’s illegal now, right? I mean, it must be pretty bad for you.”

“Sure, it was then, too. But nothing’s really illegal when you’ve got my kind of money.”

 

Steve frowns. “That’s… there’s something not right with that. I’m not… you know I’m not… but it doesn’t seem fair.”

“It’s not fair,” Tony says. “World never has been fair, Captain Courage. I’m sorry to be the one to tell you.”

“People always say that,” Steve says. “And they’re always wrong.” 

 

He actually sounds angry about it, Tony realizes. Again. That’s not unusual, Steve getting angry about what Tony is inclined to refer to as Real American Justice during any one of those maybe 30% of fights they have that aren’t about Tony being an asshole. It’s usually funny. To him, anyway. Usually not to Steve.

 

But the anger scares him a little right now. Just the sharpness of it. Just in this context, when Steve has PTSD and a residual infection from a heart surgery and has already ramped himself up once so far. “It’s a cop out,” Steve says, in the same tone. “It’s an excuse. How come you do what you do if that’s what you think? Why didn’t you stay quit?”

 

Tony rubs his arm. “It’s okay, Stevie.”

 

Steve isn’t placated. “I know the world’s not fair. I’m not stupid. Don’t talk to me like I am. Even if it was fine on its own, a lot of people are pretty determined to _make_ it unfair, I know that. But so it’s not fair. It could be, couldn’t it? And what else are we doing if we’re not doing that? Isn’t that the whole point of… well, of all of it? Isn’t that exactly what heroes are?”

 

“Relax a little, okay?” Tony says.

“Don’t tell me to relax, Stark. Don’t tell me to relax about my job.”

“I’m going to tell you to relax about your job when you _literally just had surgery_ , Rogers. Just fucking cool it. We can plot out the morality of heroism tomorrow.” 

“You mean never talk about it at all. And I don’t like your tone about it, either. It’s not a joke. Not everything is a joke, Tony. This is serious. Some things are goddamned serious. That guy who shot me, what if he’s right?”

 

Fuck fucking jesus. Terror surges through Tony’s body. It blocks out his ears. He chokes on it. “He’s not right.” 

“What if he is?”

“He’s _not_ ,” Tony says. “I never said it wasn’t serious, Steve. I’m saying one thing to you, and that’s relax. Just for right now. Relax. You can’t do much about the state of the world when you’re sick.”

 

Steve sits up abruptly. Abruptly enough that Tony is tipped off balance by it. It’s not really sitting up, either, it’s something else entirely, because Steve’s body is rigid and his mouth is set back in that grim line again, his chin high. “Go to hell!” he says, and Tony can hear his breathing under it, and he knows, he _knows_ , that it is utterly, utterly wrong. 

 

It takes him a minute to think. Tony knows what cardiac arrest feels like, he actually knows that for real, so it’s stupid he thinks this, but he cannot say for sure that he, personally, is not actually experiencing it at this moment. That sensation is stupid, it is utterly and completely stupid, but it is also overwhelming, so it takes him a minute. It’s never taken him this long to think about anything. 

 

It’s hard to think at all, actually. His heart has stopped and he’s watching Steve panic and he’s trying to pull everything into place through a vibrating fog. “Just shut up!” Steve says, and Tony doesn’t totally hear it, because it doesn’t make sense anyway, it’s wrong, because he’s not talking, he’s thinking, but. But he’s getting it. One piece of information after another, each one in a line until it clicks. 

 

And then it does. “I get it, Stevie,” he says, in the most measured voice he has. “I get it. Come on down.”

 

“Go to _hell_!” Steve says. His eyes have started to look wet, but he’s not crying, and his expression is rock solid, like his teeth are gritted. “You’re just going to sit here and tell me I’m supposed to be fine with a world full of drugged up billionaires, playing with people’s lives. That you did that and people do it now and you’re not even ashamed of it. Well, I’m not fine with it. Nobody should be fine with it. You _should_ be ashamed!”

 

Tony doesn’t know how Steve even says it. His breathing sounds painful, like it actually hurts him, like it should make speaking impossible. His hand is over his heart, clasped there, but he’s still talking. Tony feels his own hand tensing behind Steve like it’s made of actual iron. 

“Come on down, Stevie.”

“Tony!” Steve says. “You… just… how can you… this is all _wrong_. It’s just _wrong_.”

“Just breathe, okay?”

“Go to… just… go to Hell!” 

“C’mere, honey,” Tony says. He puts his arms out and Steve glares at him. And he glares at him, and glares at him and draws staggering half-breaths, and it seems to Tony like he’s never going to move. 

 

And then does. He comes in, angrily and resentfully, like it’s a punishment he’s resisting, but he comes in, into Tony’s arms. For a little while he’s just still there, hot and sticky and tense, gasping against Tony’s chest like a stalled machine. Tony doesn’t know what to do with that, except to just rest his hands on Steve’s back and let it happen. He could use a little of that disassociation right now, he thinks. A drink, a little space-out of his own, anything would do, just anything that could help him not be here. But he doesn’t have any of it. He has to be in the real world, holding this body against him that is supposed to be invulnerable but apparently, and in so, so many ways, isn’t invulnerable at all. “Breathe, honey.”

 

And then Steve hugs back. Hard. Like Tony is a life raft and like he is drowning, like this hug is a matter of absolute life or death. And when he does, Tony feels something under Steve’s gown pressed against his chest. The dressing, probably. Covering the place where they cut open his heart. The world has come out of its socket. _His heart_ , Tony thinks. _It’s impossible_.

 

“Sorry,” Steve says. “Sorry. Sorry. Shit. I’m… I’m… spazzing here, I guess.”

“Little bit,” Tony says, or hopes he says. He doesn’t even know if he’s actually talking. 

“Little… no. It’s wall-to-wall spaz. I’m just… I’m coming off my hinges here, Stark.”

 

“Yeah, you are,” Tony says. “But it’s okay. I get it. Breathe.”

“How do you… I shouldn’t have let someone get close enough to shoot me. If I’d moved like a soldier instead of an art student, I wouldn’t be in this mess right now. I just…” 

 

Tony gives that a pause. “That’s pretty much still spaz, Steve.”

“I’m not… don’t you…?”

“It’s a junk equation,” Tony says. “It’s useless, unsolvable. It doesn’t go anywhere except crazytown. And it’s not great there, I’ve been.”

“I don’t…”

“Just cut it off.”

“I don’t know how to do that!”

“Yeah you do,” Tony says. “I’ve seen you do it. You’re a pro at this. You breathe in, and then you stop.”

 

It’s advice for fucking life, Tony thinks, because he’s kind of doing it himself right now. Steve breathes. And then he breathes again, and Tony feels him do it, and tries to bring his own insides into alignment with this firm and totally cool persona he’s projecting. He has no idea how he’s even doing that, unless it’s just raw Newtonian physics, like two crazy objects can’t occupy the same space. 

 

Steve breathes again. It’s getting closer to evenness. He’s pulled out of the hug to do it now. Sort of accidentally, like he hadn’t entirely meant to, but he’s doing it at the same time as lying down again, so Tony will take it. He keeps a hand on Steve’s arm though. Not rigid. Just there.

“Tony…” Steve says. 

“It’s okay,” Tony says, again. “I get it. I get it, Stevie. You’re okay.”

 

Steve’s face is still troubled, like he doesn’t totally understand what Tony is saying to him, but he’s looking. He’s focusing his gaze, he’s pushing it down, like he’s getting on top of it. He puts a hand up to his forehead. Closes his eyes. Breathes out. “Shit,” he says. “Just... shit.”

 

On balance, Tony thinks, ‘shit’ is probably about accurate. He lies down next to Steve, on his side, arm around the top of the pillow. “Yeah.”

“I don’t really think you’re a bad guy,” Steve says. He says it like it matters.

 

“I’m kind of a bad guy,” Tony says.

“No. You’re not. I know that.”

“I don’t mean that as a self-deprecating thing, Stevie. That’s not my style. It’s just facts. I used to be a lot worse, but I’m still not that great.”

“Yes you are.”

“No, I’m not. And sometimes I question my motives in dating a teenaged college communist, but I think, on balance, you’re probably good for me.”

 

Steve’s eyes snap open. “I’m 96,” he says, sharply. “I’m a 96 year old war veteran with PTSD. And you’re a jackass. You’ve got such a _thing_ about your age, and I’m sick of hearing about it. You’re the _only one_ who has a problem with it, Tony. I think it suits you. That little bit of grey in your hair is sexy, and you’re in really good shape.” 

 

Steve’s tone is so accidentally petulant saying that that Tony outright laughs at it. It’s bizarre to laugh, it’s fucking ridiculous to laugh right now, given everything that’s going on, but laugh Tony does. That Steve is saying all of this while giving him a stern command-stare from his pillow, his face flushed and his hair ruffled just makes it funnier.

 

Steve doesn’t seem bothered. If anything, Tony’s laughing seems to make him firmer in his opinions, because he apparently has more to say about this, and he says it: “no-one else cares, okay? If I’m old enough to have war flashbacks, I’m definitely old enough to know how I feel about you, so just… shut up about it from now on, huh? Don’t say it anymore.”

“Fair enough,” Tony says.

 

“And I’m not any damn communist either. I just know the difference between right and wrong. Hell, if that’s communism now, then sign me up.”

 

Tony smiles. “You know, when we first started seeing each other, Pepper called you my Midlife Crisis.”

“That’s really mean,” Steve says. “It’s mean in a lot of ways. Pepper is really mean sometimes. And I’ll bet she only said it because she felt bad about what happened between the two of you.”

“You think so?”  
“Uh huh, I do.”

“Did you guys ever talk about it?”

“Yeah,” Steve says. “I asked her before I did anything with you. We’re friends. I would have backed off.”

 

Steve’s unshakeable code of honor is particular, and it’s touching. Tony likes hearing the addendum though: “I mean, I’d’ve tried to back off. It might not have gone so well.”

“What’d she say?”

“She said, ‘good luck with that’.”

 

Tony laughs again. “When we were together, I remember – she really likes Spalding Gray, he’s a writer, she used to quote this passage to me, about what I was like. I don’t remember it, but I remember the last line. It was: ‘welcome to Vietnam’.” 

 

Steve doesn’t look like he gets it. Tony feels bad about that. Steve doesn’t need to know about what two not-quite-baby-boomers had to say to each other about Spalding Gray.

“Never mind,” Tony says. “Pepper and me…”

 

“You and Pepper are family,” Steve says. “It’s obvious every time you talk to each other. Maybe it didn’t work out romantically, but it’s not like you wasted that time together. It was important to both of you, and you’re family now. Families aren’t always who you’re born to, you should know that.”

 

Tony thinks about that. “You know, she was sitting with me, out there. I didn’t even ask her.”

“Right?”

“I wish she wouldn’t smoke, though. I really hate the smoking.”

“People smoke, Tony. Leave her alone.”

“It’s really gross.” 

“Leave her alone.” 

“I love you,” Tony says, matter-of-factly. “Just, you know, so you know.” 

 

Steve actually smiles. It’s surprising. Like Tony had forgotten he could or something. “Wow. That sounded almost painless.” 

“Yeah, well. You’ve had a hard day, you deserve a little something.”

“Mmm,” Steve says. “A lot of it sucked. But parts were good.”

 

Tony laughs again, but a little quieter this time. He moves closer to Steve, draws a hand across his cheek, across that little bit of beard growth that’s still there from the afternoon. It’s a soft gesture, he thinks. Surprisingly soft. He didn’t know that was in him either. “You’re looking pretty tired,” he says. “You don’t usually ever look tired. I didn’t even know you could.”

“Yeah,” Steve says. “I think, if I could sleep, that’d be good.”

“Think you can?”

 

He lays the hand on Steve’s shoulder now, reaching his arm across Steve’s body. He’s folded into Steve’s space here, he’s responding to him like his body is permeable and soft. Following his lead, like he did when they fucked. It’s weird, and that’s a weird comparison. Steve frowns, closes his eyes again. He puts his head against Tony’s. “I don’t… maybe?”

 

Tony is not used to this kind of touching. Fucking, fighting, fondling, all of that stuff he understands. He knows how to move fast, knows how to move defensively, knows how to make everything purposeful, directed, contained. Like his body is a machine, and he’s driving it, basically, and isn’t that a pertinent fucking metaphor considering what he does with his days. But sauntering too, though. Loitering with intent. All of that. Taking up space. This other weird thing, he thinks, it’s different. It’s too soft or something. It’s too human, it’s not mechanical enough.

 

It’s also totally appropriate, though, sex thoughts notwithstanding. He can see that it’s appropriate. Steve’s breathing is finally regular, and everything’s coming still. “Kind of keyed up, I guess.” Tony says.

“Yeah. And kind of hungry, actually.”

“Can I go outside to get you something? I can ask about your notebook too.”

 

Steve opens his eyes. Makes a weird face. He says nothing for a little while, just looks at Tony from right there on the pillow. Then he says, “yeah, okay.”

“I mean, if you’d rather try to sleep, that’s fine.”

“No,” Steve says. “Look.” 

 

He screws up his face. Sucks his lip in. Takes a breath. “Look, I’d like the notebook,” Steve says. “I really would, but I just… I… look. Please don’t leave me alone in a hospital. It’s pathetic, I get it, but please don’t. I’m really… I’m not doing well here, it’s not going well.”

 

“Okay,” Tony says, quietly. He could say a lot more, he could say so much more, but he doesn’t know how to, so he just says that. 

“Thanks,” Steve says. “Really, thank you. I know it’s not… I know you don’t… it’s just…”

 

Tony keeps waiting. He moves his hand a little. Just up and down, just kind of softly like that. Steve closes his eyes again, like what he’s saying is taking a lot of effort. 

“It’s just edging up into full-color flashback territory and I think… if you’ll just hang around then maybe it won’t.”

“So I’ll hang around.”

“I’m just… I’m starting to see things.”

“What kind of things?”

“Don’t,” Steve says. “Don’t talk about it. I’m not going to. I’m okay.”

“I know you’re okay.”

“Right,” Steve says. 

“I really think I should call Sam though.”

“Let it drop, Tony.Okay? Okay. Good. I really do want to eat something though, so let’s strategize on that. It’ll help, I think. It usually does.” 

 

Steve’s forthright practicality is kind of reassuring, actually. That’s probably why he does it, Tony thinks. Like he reverts to what he knows or something, like he falls into it, the same way he did into his pillow. Because it’s comforting. 

“I can text Bruce, since he’s coming,” Tony says. 

“I guess, if he doesn’t mind.”

“He’s not going to mind, Steve.”

“You think? I don’t want to put him out.”

“I don’t think, I know. These are kind of special circumstances, if you hadn’t noticed.”

“If you’re sure?”

 

Tony’s cracking, he realizes. He is running out of energy, and he feels it. It was there in that little bit of irritability in his voice just then, and it’s here in his rising irritability at Steve’s hedging right now. He gets on top of it. Steve is not trying to be annoying, he’s just Steve, and this is Steve’s thing: thinking he’s not allowed things, and having to be told. “I’m sure, Stevie. What do you want?”

 

“I think…” Steve says, and he really is thinking about it, Tony observes. Either because he’s really trying to think about food instead of horror, or because he’s Steve and he still has to take a minute when it comes to actually selecting food as opposed to just eating what’s put in front of him. “I think I really want dinner food?” 

“Diner food?”

“No, dinner food. You know, food that… nighttime food that people have at home. Normal food.”

 

“Like a steak or something?” Tony says. 

“Yeah, like that. Some kind of meat and potatoes, and with a vegetable. Gravy. Normal food. Like regular people eat every day.”

“Meat and three? That’s definitely around. And probably open.” 

 

“Yeah, actually,” Steve says. “That’ll do it. If you’re going to do that get me some mac and cheese and a sweet tea as well.”

“But you already _are_ a sweet tea, Stevie.”

 

Steve winces. “No. Enough. If you’re going to keep up with this creepy niceness then you have to be more sarcastic about it, so I can tell. I don’t know who you are when you’re like this. It’s weird. And I’m spazzing out right now and I don’t want weird. Be meaner. Be Tony.”

 

Tony laughs. It’s not like before though. It feels borderline hysterical, like it’s stretched across a void, like a lifeline. Definitely cracking. Jesus, he needs a drink. 

“I was trying to be sarcastic right then,” he says. “I guess it didn’t come through. You’ve put my natural meanness out of alignment.”

 

Steve sort-of-smiles. “Sorry.”

“Hey. No. Don’t worry about it, I’ll recalibrate. What kind of meat?”

“Think they’ll have meatloaf?”

“If they don’t have meatloaf, they’ll make it.”

“I don’t want anybody to do any extra work. It’s two in the morning. Nobody needs to make a meatloaf for me.”

“Steve,” Tony says, “shut up.”

“It’s just not necessary, Tony, you can’t just…”

“I’m a _billionaire_ , Steve. That pretty much means I can do what I want, and that also applies to meatloaf.” 

 

Steve makes a face. But it’s a normal Steve face, Tony’s pretty sure. Just that slightly stuffy, specific-Steveish kind of ‘Tony, please’ face. 

“And that’s the dumbest sentence I’ve ever articulated, so you’d better appreciate it,” Tony adds. “I can’t believe I’m arguing with you about meatloaf.”

 

“Meatloaf is good,” Steve says. “It’s a loaf made of meat, what’s not good about that?”

“Listen to what you just said, Steven: it’s a loaf made of meat. That’s objectively a weird food.”

“No, you just think it’s weird because you have too much money and apparently California is a place people come from instead of go to now. I can’t believe you’ve never had a meatloaf.”

“I didn’t say I’d never had a meatloaf, I just… what’s its wine match?”

 

Steve actually laughs a little at that. It seems shaky, but it also seems real. “I guess it’s the same as Burger King.”

“So… Chateau Any Old Booze Laying Around?”

“Pretty much.”

“My favorite vintage. Maybe you’re right after all.”

Steve laughs again. Okay.

 

“Okay,” Tony says. “I’m going to go outside – and I will be right outside that door, for less than a minute - and I’ll make this happen. Meatloaf delivery, right to your bed. Don’t say I never treat you right.”

“Okay,” Steve says. He nods. “Okay. I can do a minute.”

“Fuck it, I should just use my phone in here.”

“Go,” Steve says. “It’ll be fine. I mean it, I feel okay.”

 

It doesn’t _entirely_ sound like a lie, Tony thinks, and so he goes. And he texts. It takes a little longer than he anticipated because it’s apparently harder than he thought to be specific about meatloaf in a text message at nearly 3 in the morning. But he does it, and then he thinks about it, and then he adds, “bring liquor.” 

 

He strolls a little while he’s waiting for a response. Not out of sight of the door or anything, but just up and down the corridor for a couple of feet. He can see the shadowy figures of armed SHIELD agents near the entrance ways. Not SHIELD agents. Whatever they are now, they’re standing like they always have, like they think they’re inconspicuous. In the waiting room, Pepper is still here. She’s scrunched up in her chair, reading files. He figured she’d’ve gone home, but she hasn’t. 

 

“Hey,” he says. 

Pepper looks up at him. “What are you doing out here?” she demands. Same old Pepper. It’s almost reassuring. 

“Steve wants food,” Tony says. 

“Why didn’t you just buzz a nurse?”

 

It’s like somebody pulled out a lynchpin. Tony slumps against the wall like he’s been dropped there, drops his arm with the phone in it, and closes his eyes against the world. “Because I’m a fucking idiot.”

 

“You’re not,” Pepper says. “You’re not an idiot. You’re just stressed out and you forgot something. And who wouldn’t?”

“Me, usually.”

“Well, surprise, Tony, you’re a human man. That must be hard. Take a minute with that discovery.”

“Great. Great, that’s really helpful. Just get some jabs in while my boyfriend is in hospital. You’re a class act, Potts.”

 

Pepper snorts. Tony takes a look at her. Same old Pepper.

“He’s okay,” he tells her. 

“Good.”

“But, like, not okay.”

“This infection?”

“No,” Tony says, “no, that’s… I’m pretty sure that’s fine. It’s… Pepper, he’s kind of losing it in there and I’m… I’m really fucking it up. I’m really fucking it up.”

 

Pepper puts down her files. “I really doubt that. You’re actually pretty good in a crisis, Anthony Asshole.”

 

Tony laughs. Not hysterically this time, just good old, almost-regular kind-of-relief laughter. It feels good, actually. It feels, in point of fact, pretty good. “Um, fuck you?”

 

Pepper smiles. “I haven’t heard anything from Hill or Romanov,” she says. “But I don’t think they’d tell me anyway.”

“I’m not even sure they’d tell me.”

“Can you blame them?”

 

Fair, Tony thinks. Wrong, and something he’ll correct at his earliest convenience, but fair. “I should go back in. You can come in if you want. He’s okay.”

“Right,” Pepper says. 

“But, like…”

“Not okay.”

“Yeah.”

 

Pepper chews on her bottom lip, like she’s thinking. She does this, it’s a Pepper thing. A little chewing, and then a lick of the teeth because of the lipstick. It’s Pepper. 

“Was I just… was I just a complete failure with you?” Tony asks her. 

 

He doesn’t know why he says it. He doesn’t know why he’s doing anything. But Pepper’s there and it’s weird and quiet and he’s fucked up and he has to know. 

“Oh, Tony,” Pepper says. “Oh, Tony, you jackass.” 

 

She gets out of her chair and comes forward and gives him a hug. Just strides over and puts her arms around him like it’s nothing. And Tony, after a minute, because he’s a human man this time and not an asshole in shock, hugs her back like a normal person. 

 

It’s familiar. It’s familiar too. She steps out, smoothes his hair back, cups his face again, and it’s one of the most comforting things he’s ever had in his life. It’s Pepper. It’s _Pepper_. He doesn’t even want to kiss her. “Of _course_ you weren’t a failure,” she says. “People are just a lot more complicated than machines. Parts don’t always fit together.”

 

Tony rests his head on top of hers, which he can do because she isn’t wearing heels. Seems to me, he could say, that actually these parts fit together pretty well. He doesn’t though. “Forget about it,” he says. “I don’t know why I said that. You’re right, I guess. I’m stressed out, this is stressing me out, and I’m a fucking mess.”

“That’s not exactly new for you.”

“I’m so shitty to Steve. Just _constantly_. I’m basically an asshole to him all of the time. And he… he just… he _trusts_ me. I don’t even know.”

 

“Sometimes you’re trustworthy,” Pepper says. She pulls back from him, keeps her hand on his back for a second, then lets go. She starts collecting her files into a pile. Puts them into her briefcase. “Maybe you’ve earned it?”

“Or maybe Steve is just crazy.”

“That too.”

“I was actually going to proposition you at the office. I was going to ask if you wanted to do it.”

“You would have struck out,” Pepper says. “Come on, Tony. I have my own stuff going on.”

 

Tony can’t tell if he’s kidding or not with this reaction: “What stuff?! You didn’t tell me you had stuff!” 

Pepper rolls her eyes. “So I don’t tell you everything I do. I didn’t think I had to.”

“What stuff, Pepper?”

 

Pepper’s hand is on the door of the recovery room now, she’s opening it. “Stuff that is none of your business,” she says. “Come on.” 

 

Steve’s right about her, Tony thinks. Steve is right a lot of the time, about a lot of things. 


	4. The Algorithm

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Tony collects himself, Steve unravels, and Pepper recalls a comics-related event.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just want to let you know that Teenaged Tony was kind of a shitty guy.

The thing about programming, Tony thinks, is that no matter how complicated it gets, it’s always an expression of something that is actually very simple. It’s a yes/no proposition: yes electrical impulse, no nothing doing, this combination of events and not that one. He’s a binary thinker, he knows, and while earlier in the day that knowledge might have been a point of complicated romantic reflection, right here and now it’s about half-way between flat truth and reassuring functionality.

That difference, he thinks, examining his old man face in the restroom mirror, is probably equivalent to the difference between fucking and disaster. Intense sensations both, but locatable on a scale, as if all differences in kind were observable differences in degree. Because probability, Tony thinks. Because matter. Because we’re star-stuff, a webbed net of it, intricate combinations of decision-making presence, one thing or another in an instant, no more, no less, no middle-ground and nothing  _fancy_.

 

Nothing fancy in his face now either, even if his eyes are bleary and his skin is sallow under the fluorescent light, and nothing fancy in programming. Just yes/no. Function/failure. Right/wrong.  _Right._ He pinches the bridge of his nose.  _Come the fuck on, Stark. Get it together_.

 

The point in all this is that Tony doesn’t cry. Obviously. He doesn’t just, you know, cry about his feelings. He needs a shave, sure, because his beard is starting to creep out of artful/debonair and into unkempt/agitated and that is giving him away, and he actually wouldn’t mind throwing up a lot - partly he is here in the restroom because he thought he was going to do that - but at least he’s not crying, and for that he is grateful.

In terms of making a rational decision about the display of emotion in a physical form for functional effect, he wouldn’t choose to cry right now anyway, but that doesn’t matter, because it’s not a part of his programing. Tony doesn’t have to choose not to cry, because he doesn’t cry. That’s literally the one thing he has to do with this situation: not cry. It’s like he’s purpose built.

And okay, so maybe the gratefulness isn’t as uncomplicated as all that, since the major reason he doesn’t cry is because Howard taught him not to. “Stark Men are made of iron,” he remembers Howard saying, and he wishes he’d remembered about that before he’d let himself be called Iron Man, because it’s irritating as all hell that, once again, Howard is all up in Tony’s psychological business even from beyond the grave. Still, Howard’s un-sensitivity training is useful right now, and so Tony is grateful. He half-wishes he wasn’t, but he is. Thanks again, dad, he thinks. And also, fuck you.

He feels this contradiction with a vividness that is probably not helping with the nausea, since maybe the thing he remembers most about learning not to cry is feeling like he’s on the verge of throwing up or passing out, because his arm is broken and he is stopping himself from crying about that. This is when he’s five years old and he’s burned himself with the soldering iron, and fallen backwards and landed badly and broken the other arm, though he doesn’t know it’s broken then, he just knows it hurts and feels wrong. At first he cries about it, but Howard tells him to stop. “That’s enough carrying on, Anthony,” Howard says, in a vaguely disgusted tone, not really looking at him, and Tony stops crying.

He doesn’t remember exactly how he did. It seemed to happen by instinct, like running an algorithm, like ‘stop crying Y/N’ came up and he hit Y. He can’t move the arm to pick himself up, and the hand at the end of it isn’t working, like it isn’t even attached to him and it doesn’t even feel like pain anymore, it feels like waves of temperature, like a blunt wall of sick-making static, but he stops. So what if he can’t see properly, and not only because he’s dropped his glasses in the fall? So what if his stomach is trying to crawl up out of his mouth and his brain is white noise, like it’s shutting itself down? Howard won’t talk to him or let him stay in the lab if he cries, and he wants to stay in the lab, so he doesn’t cry. He gets up by rocking forward onto his knees, and he wipes his eyes with his burned hand, and he gets back to work like Howard tells him to.

And yeah, he works one-armed, because the bad one won’t do anything, but Howard doesn’t notice that, except to point out a couple of times that Tony is being sloppy. Tony is mad at himself for being sloppy. He shouldn’t be sloppy, not ever. Not with machines. They deserve better than that, and his arm isn’t even that bad. Stark men are made of machinery, and Tony works just like a computer and lo and behold, Howard does too; Howard’s responses are that predicable. The right response, letting Tony stay in the lab, can be generated with the right input, not crying. The arm isn’t that bad. 

Except that Tony can’t pick up his glass the next morning, and Martina takes him to the doctor, and his arm is broken. Martina is about the age Steve is now, and usually Tony would wind her up by being a rich, white asshole in training, but he’s too sick to do anything like that today, because his forearm is the size of a football and the second thing he does after not being able to pick up the glass is pass out and fall off his chair. He wakes up when Martina is carrying him to the car, and she sits with her arm around him the whole time the doctor is setting the bone. He doesn’t cry while that happens either. He wants to – Maria is in Cancun so it’s just Tony and Martina, and Martina is okay but she’s not Maria - but then Martina tells him he is brave. Tony likes the idea of being brave, and he knows he is brave because he is being smart, and that makes it easier.

In retrospect, Tony figures that assimilating that discovery without question, that all people were programmable, and that all social interaction was essentially algorithmic, is probably the reason he was diagnosed as sociopathic, and then autistic, and then as a “Baby Randroid” by a girl he tried to sleep with in college when he was fifteen and didn’t get to. Which okay, maybe was something of a learning curve. But not really. All  _that_  failure revealed was a need for refining the language, the need to move from straight binary to something like BASIC, even if he thinks that Dijkstra is kind of right about the fact that BASIC is sort of for morons.

 

Call it C then. It would have been about the right time for C, 1982, unless he’s fudging things because he’s old and the K&R was already starting to look dated. Doesn’t matter. The point of a programming language is that it’s still binary underneath, it’s just more sophisticated. Faster. You can make machines do more complicated things. Getting from Not Crying to actually getting laid needed a little panache, but it’s really just a complication of that same root algorithm: don’t cry when it hurts. Tony didn’t mind Randroid – he was fond of both  _Atlas Shrugged_ and  _The Fountainhead_  for obvious reasons – but he objected to Baby, and the girl laughed at him, and she made a couple of comments about his dad. Tony didn’t cry about it. Not even later when he’d mixed his drugs wrong and made himself sick like an idiot. Five years old, or fifteen, or fucking fifty, it’s always about Howard’s program and being sick and not crying from it.

 

But he doesn’t cry about that either, because Tony doesn’t cry. Not crying is the right input, and it gets the right response. Here and now, he splashes water on his face and tries, again, to get a hold of himself. He doesn’t really want to think about Howard or about striking out in college, but if he doesn’t get on top of things right now, he’s actually going to snap at Steve when he goes back in. That would the worst possible thing to do under the circumstances, because Steve is not doing well and Tony is determined to be good to him. And if he can’t make himself get sick, if he has to have all of these thoughts about what a generally shitty person he is to avoid saying something shitty to Steve, then so be it. If he has to remember being fifteen with a nineteen-year-old college girl in his room at MIT whom he is less attracted to than he is determined to stop looking at guys by doing it with her, then he’ll remember it. They were listening to  _Number of the Beast_  and knocking back wine coolers, and that memory is okay. Tony can handle thinking about wine coolers. 

 

Not to mention that this college girl is, on objective terms, a knockout. He looks forward to detailing her looks on the Private Sector BBS when they’re done here. He figures that even if he doesn’t enjoy it, or if he sucks at it, or if his brain keeps running on and he can’t take anything in about it, he’ll make it sound good anyway, because she’s hot. Tony has kept wine coolers in his bar fridge this entire year in preparation for college girls being in his room, and this is the first time it has happened, and the BBS is going to hear every detail, even the fictional ones. She has blonde hair and she’s really thin. She is an English major too, so, like, sensitive and shit.

And “just because being a hippie is fashionable doesn’t mean it’s smart,” Tony says, then,  _slightly_ indignantly, because he hasn’t yet learned how to pretend to be totally unaffected by things girls say to him. “You oughta learn to think for yourself for a change. Isn’t that what college is for?”

 

“You’re kidding me, right?” the girl says. She laughs again. “You don’t see a problem with Ayn Rand? That’s  _adorable_. How old are you again?”

“It’s rational,” Tony says. He knows he’s being patronized but he also knows that he’s right. “That’s the point of this: rationality. Thinking things through on objective terms.” He sits up on his bed for emphasis, flips  _Number of the Beast_  over, drops the needle and sets the second side playing. It’s also rational that Iron Maiden are fucking awesome, but he doesn’t bother to point that out right now. He figures that what he is saying is awesome enough.

 

“It’s rational,” he says, again, for emphasis. “Listen. Stupid people are determined cut smart people down to their level, and they’ve got this whole… justification. For being afraid of truly great ideas, for being afraid of what people can really do when they’re left alone to do it themselves. This justification for being a parasite. Altruism is just an excuse for mediocrity.”

“Jeez, wow, what a shock,” the girl says. “The son of a billionaire has a hard-on for the free market.” Tony gets a weird thrill from hearing a girl say ‘hard-on’, but he doesn’t need to say that out loud. He’s too cool for that. Besides, she looks incredulous, but she also looks amused, even a little indulgent. He’ll take it.

“That’s actually a great example,” he says. “I mean, my dad is a fucking asshole, but he made all that money because Stark Tech is better than anyone else.”

“Your dad is a war profiteer. He’s an opportunist and a butcher.”

“So what?” Tony says. “He’s the best at it. Who cares whether he’s a good guy or not? People will buy what he’s selling, because it’s the best.”

The girl laughs some more, but Tony is on a roll now, and he doesn’t care if she does. “Good guys are just guys who aren’t smart enough to do anything anybody wants,” he says. “It’s like a band-aid for useless people, ‘oh, I’m such a Good Guy, that totally excuses the fact I’m a totally pointless human being who feeds on better people’s ideas and creates absolutely nothing of value’. Jesus. Fuck ‘good guys’.”

“So I guess you’ll create performance art out of living on a fucking trust fund, huh?” the girl says. She grins now, a real grin, kind of wickedly. Tony likes that. She’s getting loose with him. It’s the wine coolers. Having wine coolers was smart. It’s the right input.

“I’m top of my physics class,” Tony says. “I run circles around everybody else in programming. And I’m the only person in this shithole who can still work the flexowriter. I don’t even need that trust fund.”

“Why don’t you give it away, then?”

“Because I’m a genius. And so I’m the best person to have it. I have it because my dad is the best at what he does, and I’m going to be even better than he was.”

“I’m picking up some minor daddy issues here,” the girl says.

Tony snorts. He takes out his box with the coke in it, and starts cutting some up on the cover of his K&R with his brand spanking new Platinum AmEx. He is aware of how devastatingly cool it is. He is aware that he is good looking and rich, and that wearing tight black jeans while also being a fifteen year old computer science/electrical engineering/physics major gives him something of an edge on the rest of the losers in this lonely nerd wasteland. “You want some of this coke?” he says. “It’s pretty good.”

“You’re playing fucking Iron Maiden!” the girl says.

“Because Iron Maiden are fucking awesome.”

 “Are you even listening to the lyrics though? Do you know what Ayn Rand said about Native Americans?”  
“She said they should roll over for a better civilization,” Tony says. “I think they should too.”

The girl blinks. “Um… look… this has really kind of…”

“I’m not being racist,” Tony says. He snorts his coke through a rolled up 1934 $500 bill that he keeps on him for this express purpose. He wipes his nose. He doesn’t have anything in the way of facial hair yet, so that’s easy. “It’s just rational. It’s not about them being Indians, it’s just about progress. You can’t be proud of living in fucking teepees and whining about ancient history and expect anybody to take you seriously. I don’t see any Indian ARPANET.” 

It takes the girl a long time to answer that, but she finally does. “Um… that actually is pretty fucking racist, guy.”

“No it’s not. I’d be the same about it if they were white. You’re just getting emotional because it’s cool to like Indians now. That’s what I mean when I say it’s rational: I’m not being emotional about this, I’m just assessing the facts. The war is over, they lost, and I’m not being influenced by emotion when I say I don’t think that’s like, bad for humanity or something. I’m rationally assessing the facts, and that scares you.”

The girl puts down her wine cooler. She looks at Tony very intently, like she’s studying him, and Tony realizes that something wild is about to happen. He steels himself: Stark men are made of iron. And he will be okay with it, he’s decided. He likes her pink mouth and the way her earrings bounce against her cheek. Her tits are pretty good too, he thinks. He’d go there, anyway, and the BBS has informed him on what to do about it and he’s going to tell the BBS about it right on back. He’s going to need to bring it home though. He needs to say something to her. He has to think for a second. What he chooses to say is: “and maybe you like being scared.”

It’s perfect. He knows it is. He can feel how good that is, how it’s the right input, how it’s going to get the right response. Because he’s fucking Tony Stark, and he’s a little high and a little drunk, and he is  _killing it_  with Ayn Rand and this college girl in his room right now. Hell, maybe he’s even managed to do something for her too, introducing her to the good intellectual work of rational self-interest. He is kind of proud of that, admittedly, but it’s not altruism. He’ll get something out of it: she’ll be his girlfriend.

Except not. “You’re a shitty person,” she says. “I sure hope you grow out of it.”

“So we’re not gonna do it, then?”

“Not even if it wasn’t illegal, you Aspergic little turd.”

That stings a little. But Tony’s not crying about it. For one thing, he doesn’t cry anyway, and for another, her loss, especially since Tony has better coke than anyone on campus. He inhales some more of it while she leaves and while he’s listening to the rest of the record. He wonders if Howard likes coke. He wonders if Howard would give a shit if he knew that Tony liked coke. He wonders why it mattered to him so much when Howard didn’t like Iron Maiden. It’s not like he cried about that either, but it mattered in a weird way.

Tony likes coke except when he has too much of it, which he sometimes does by accident because he’s just thinking about a lot of stuff and he feels better but not totally better, and he keeps snorting it in while he’s thinking. Coke is not benzos, and he knows he’s got to get better at using it, but it’s too late now because he’s jittery and has to drink a third of fifth of scotch to try to come down.

Only that that just makes him throw up a bunch and it’s the gross kind of throwing up, because he’s high as well as drunk and it makes him super conscious the whole time.  When he’s done, he crawls into bed to sleep it off, only he can’t. He tries to beat off about the girl too, but he can’t do that either. The daddy issues comment weighs on him too heavily and he wishes he could forget it so he could think about her tits, but he can’t. He thinks he might stop drinking so much or maybe just ease back on the coke some generally, but after awhile the bad feeling in his body retreats and he gives up on those thoughts and just has more coke and gets up again. He spends the rest of the night spinning Sabbath’s  _Paranoid_  and Slayer’s  _Show No Mercy_  and some other stuff in the same vein while he works on the robot he’s building and hangs out on the BBS and doesn’t even miss a beat between doing that and making it to class in the morning. Because he is fucking awesome. He is the smartest person at this university and he is years younger than any of them. He is untouchable. At no point does he cry.

 

Still, after that experience with the girl, he puts a lot more effort into Winning Friends and Influencing People. He’s still running algorithms, of course, but he learns to make it less obvious. He gets better at programming. Because if people are machines, Tony thinks, then if he fucks it up it’s because he fucked up the math. It’s not because he’s unlikeable – whether he’s likeable or not is irrelevant. It’s not because there’s something essentially bad about him that nobody can stand, as if Howard’s immense dissatisfaction with him was the base state of the world. All it means is that he has to go back over the code. He just has to be rational. And also maybe stop talking about  _The Fountainhead_  to the extent that he used to because chicks evidently don’t dig  _The Fountainhead_  as much as Tony does.

 

But whatever. The point is that Howard’s program was the first program Tony ever learned to run, and the first machine he learned to run it through was himself. And he is running it now, even if it’s been through a lot of linguistic refinement. He is running it while he’s looking at himself in the mirror and he is fifty years old all of a sudden, like an instant, like the universe is folding. And he’s older even than Howard was then.

Tony also remembers telling this stuff to Steve. Not the part about the girl - it’s not like Tony is some liberal now or something, but the extent to which he was into Ayn Rand in college is  _vaguely_ embarrassing at this stage of his life. Not to mention that maybe what he said about Indians actually maybe was  _somewhat_ racist in retrospect, and Steve is pretty down on that sort of thing. So he just tells the part about Howard. He is trying to tell Steve about programming and how it drew on a lot more than computers, and he hadn’t really meant for it to become Dad Confessions, but it does, by accident, and he tells Steve about Howard and the time he broke his arm.

“Tony, that’s awful,” Steve says. “I’m really sorry.”

Tony can’t really see Steve’s face in the dark. He’s drunk as hell, sitting on the edge of Steve’s bed, ranting about programming, and Steve had been sleeping when he came in, but he’s woken up and has sat up in his bed to listen to Tony.

“I don’t know. Is it?” Tony says. “I thought it was kind of… my dad, you know, he was such a fucking asshole but he did teach me a lot. Because that’s kind of how programming works, when you get right down to it: the program either runs, or it doesn’t. Good or bad, doesn’t matter; it works. Or it doesn’t work. If you do it right, it works.”

Steve’s body is still, but Tony can’t make out his expression in this near total lack of light. He suspects that it is probably pretty firm, but he keeps going anyway. “You’re not getting me. I couldn’t be in the lab if I cried. You can’t really be smart if you… you can’t. Because there’s nothing really worth crying about, not if you’re rational. It’s expenditure of energy for no net gain. You don’t do that, it’s not… the math is off.”

Steve gives that a pause. And then he says, “Tony. You broke your arm and he didn’t do anything about it. You were a kid. That’s appalling.”

“Maybe it was a shitty way to learn that lesson,” Tony concedes. “Maybe it’s like… pathos or something.”

Steve shakes his head. Tony can just about see that movement. “No, Tony. It’s like child abuse or something.”

“You don’t know that. You’re just… you don’t know that. My dad was an asshole but I don’t need regression therapy or anything. I’m fine about it. It’s just facts.”

Steve is quiet for a little while. “You’re really drunk,” he says, eventually.

“I guess,” Tony says.

“I think you should go to bed.”

“I don’t want to go to bed. I want to talk about programming.”

Steve sighs, and Tony has the stupid thought that he has the last laugh over Howard in one way, since he’s sticking it to Captain America - he bets daddy dearest would be rolling over in his eternal rest if he knew  _that_  was going on. But he is also starting to bet that he is putting the wrong input into Steve right now, and that maybe he won’t get to stick it much longer. “I don’t mean to bring up that shit about Howard,” he says. “I was on a brain roll or something. Forget about it.”

“It’s okay to talk about Howard,” Steve says.

“It’s just not that relevant, you know? I want to tell you about computers. I guess you don’t know about them. I guess maybe you know about Turing…”

“I feel some of that stuff, about my dad,” Steve says, abruptly. “You know, thinking maybe I learned some good things from bad stuff. But I don’t know. It’s different. He was messed up from the war. Like I am, I guess, but maybe it was worse for him. Doesn’t matter. I think, at least I knew he loved me, and maybe that was okay.”

Tony snorts. “That’s sweet, Stevie.”

“I was really sick, before,” Steve says. “You know that, right?”

“Yeah, I know.”

“When I was a little kid, when my asthma was really bad, my dad used to sit up with me. We couldn’t go to the doctor, it was expensive, but they’d pour boiling water for me, mom and dad. And then my dad would sit up. He called me ‘Stevie Lad’ and he told me stories until I could go to sleep. I guess I know because of that.”

Tony lets that sit for a minute or two. He’s about to say something, even if he can’t decide to comment dismissively on the overt emotion of all of this, or make a joke about how adorably lame ‘Stevie Lad’ is, or some kind of awkwardly layered reference to the fact that Steve is now sitting up with Tony in a way that probably mirrors what his dad did, in that even though Tony is not exactly sick he is definitely inappropriately drunk right now, and he has not been crying but he is definitely doing something that is uncomfortably close to it. But then Steve says something else: “I guess I knew he was proud of me,” and the shock of it makes Tony throw up in his mouth.

But he manages to swallow it, and he recalibrates. He says, “huh?”

“My dad. Even though I wasn’t… even though I… kind of didn’t come out right. He told me he was proud of me for being strong. He just… he was a really mixed up guy and he drank too much and… I can’t forgive a lot of what he did. But I don’t hate him, because he told me that. And I’m kind of getting to hate Howard.”

“It worked out okay,” Tony says.

“You worked out okay,” Steve says. “That’s you, and that’s your own hard work. You should be proud of it: you built yourself. Maybe you did it out of reaction to circumstances, but you did it. You built Tony just like you built Iron Man. And I’m sorry you had to.”

The way Tony feels right now is so strange. He’s too drunk, he’s drunk enough to be nauseous, drunk enough that his elbows keep slipping off his knees where he’s leaned them, drunk enough to be in-vino-veritasing all over the show in Steve’s bedroom. But there’s something weird under that too. Weird and threatening and awkwardly soft. Steve is making him waver. Steve is making him scared. Steve is making him want to cry. And he doesn’t cry. He’s not programmed for it. “What about last night? You told me to stop coming in drunk. How come you’re even talking to me?”

Steve sighs again. “Let’s not talk about that now, okay? Why don’t you just keep telling me what’s going on for you.”

“Nothing’s going on!” Tony snaps. “I was just telling you about programming.”

“At two in the morning, in the dark, while you’re bombed out of your mind.”

“Yeah,” Tony says, indignantly.  

“Tony…”

“I don’t want to talk about my fucking dad!”

“Look, I meant it,” Steve says.

He means it now, too. Tony can hear that in his voice. Steve’s voice is hard. “I don’t like how much you drink.”

Tony doesn’t say anything to that. He makes a face, but Steve can’t see that in the dark.

“I don’t like that you only come here when you’re drunk,” Steve says, and Tony scoffs, but mostly he scoffs because it’s absolutely fair, and it was fair last night when Steve said it then too.

“Yeah, well, Tony has a few design flaws.”

Steve sighs a third time. He brushes a hand over his face. Tony can hear the faint rasp of stubble. “Yeah, he does,” he says. And then: “But I guess you built him when you were a kid.”

Tony has a lot of weird feelings about that statement too. His mouth burns, but he doesn’t get sick again. He thinks maybe he shouldn’t get this drunk anymore, but he also knows from experience that there’s fuck all he can do about how drunk he gets when things are like they are now, which is to say confusing and terrible. His elbows slip off his knees again. “You’re really smart,” he says, to Steve. “Are you super smart or were you just always smart? I couldn’t get much from the notes about what the serum did to your brain. I guess not that much, since you’re all fucked up and everything.”

Steve says nothing. Which, Tony realizes, is because he’s said something incredibly rude. Shit, he thinks.  _Shit._  Wrong input. “I mean, just scientifically,” he says, attempting to hedge back on it a little. “If your brain chemistry had changed a lot, I mean, if it healed fast like everything else does, I don’t think you’d be able to have PTSD.”

“Go to bed, Tony,” Steve says.  

“No, I mean… I think you should stop dicking around about this art school thing. Maybe you’re a great artist and maybe you’re not, but you’re a good thinker and you deserve to go to college. I had a lot of fun there, did I tell you? I have to tell you about this girl.” 

“That’s very flattering, Tony,” Steve says. His tone is kind of tetchy and sarcastic, but Tony ignores that.

“And I want to go to dinner with you. I want to buy you a lobster. You’ve never had one, right? It’s a crying shame. I want to buy you a butter poached lobster.”

Steve’s reaction is not the reaction Tony thought it would be. He thought Steve would be happy that Tony is actually, finally, offering to take him out. Like, out in the world, as if they are dating rather than just shamefully fucking each other in the middle of the night. But Steve is flat. Disdainful. Almost kind of disgusted. “Let’s see how you feel about that in the morning,” he says. It stings a little.

“Can I get in the bed?” Tony asks. It’s kind of pathetic, even he can hear that, and Steve takes his time answering. “Tony…” he says, and it’s for the best that Tony can’t see his face. He can picture it, and he’d really rather not see that expression. He knows what it would be.

He gets up. “Okay,” he says. “Sorry.”

“I don’t want to… it’s not… I’ve got to draw some kind of line here, you get that, right?”

“I get it, it’s fine. I’m going.”

“Jeez, come on, get in,” Steve says, and he throws back the covers. “We’ll talk about it tomorrow.”

Tony doesn’t want to talk about it all. “Sorry I woke you up,” he says. “I guess it wasn’t that important.

“Get in the bed, Stark,” Steve says. And he means business. So Tony takes his shoes off and gets into the bed.

Steve pulls the covers up over them. “Go to sleep, okay?”

“Sleep it off, you mean.” 

“Pretty much.”

“Steve…”

“Go to sleep, Tony,” Steve says. His tone is firm to the point of overt bossiness, and Tony is about to say something about that, but then Steve rolls over and hugs him. Tight. He pulls Tony’s body against him and throws his leg over Tony’s and says the rest of his piece into Tony’s hair. “Hey? Just go to sleep and don’t worry about it right now.”

Tony doesn’t cry about that either. Even if, he’s forced to realize, Steve’s command of Tony’s coding is getting pretty good. And he’s not crying now. He just uses the restroom and washes his hands, and stares into the mirror for a while, and then he goes back into the recovery room. His eyes are bloodshot but his hair is fine, and that’ll do.

Steve doesn’t look good when he walks back into the recovery room. Pepper doesn’t say anything to point that, but actually, Tony thinks, she might not have noticed. He might not have noticed anything either, if he hadn’t been out of the room for a minute or two. Shit, maybe he’s noticing nothing; maybe it’s just that grinding kind of late, where disaster is settling into endurance, and Steve’s eyes are glassy, and he looks flushed, because he hasn’t slept. 

 

“How’re you doing there?” Tony asks him, anyway.

Steve looks up. “I’m okay.”

“Yeah?” 

“I’ve come down a lot.”

“Yeah?” 

“Yeah, I’m just… I’m pretty grateful, if you want to know.”

 

“Don’t be grateful, huh?” Tony says. He walks over. Brushes Steve’s hair back. “You feel hot. You feel hotter than you did. You feeling okay?”

“I feel… um,” Steve says “I’m okay. How are you?” 

“What do you mean?”

“Tony,” Steve says. “Come on.”

“You come on. What’s happening?”

“I’m okay,” Steve says, “I’m… I guess it’s kind of worse, but it’s not bad.”

“What kind of worse?”

“Can I have some water?”

“Yeah, ‘course you can.”

 

Tony is about to do that but Pepper is already on it. She fills the plastic jug from Steve’s side table, and then pours him a glass, and he takes it. It takes him a minute to get to drinking it. “What’s going on?” Tony says. 

“Not much. It’s really not that bad. I just feel like… I’m not concentrating well,” he says. “I keep missing stuff. It’s not bad, but. Dropping out?”

 

“Press the buzzer,” Pepper says. “The nurse said to say if there was a problem, didn’t she? This is a problem.” 

“I’m okay,” Steve says. “She’s busy, I’m okay.”

“You’re not okay, Steve,” Pepper says. “You’re in hospital. Don’t pull this shit, please. Tony and I are both way too old for it.”

 

Steve is unimpressed. “I’m not pulling anything. They said I should fight it off, and I am.”

“I’m pressing the buzzer,” Tony says. “Whine about it later.”

“Tony,” Steve says. “Can you just… can you guys just please listen to me? I’m telling you it’s okay. I don’t feel great, yeah. I had heart surgery. But it’s okay. They can’t give me anything, I’ve just got to wait.”

 

Tony folds his arms. In a weird way, he feels like doing that is keeping his body together. Because it wants to come to pieces, the way the ground is shifting under him, the way he’s so _irritated_ with Steve, and he doesn’t know if he should fight him or take him at his word. He closes his eyes and imagines what it would be like having a drink right now. Pretty good, probably. Probably pretty much ideal. 

“Tony?” Steve says. 

“Uh huh,” Tony says. “Just…”

“Sit down, okay?”

“I’m okay.”

“Sit down.”

 

Steve has put out his hand. Tony can see that when he opens his eyes. The room has a blue tint to it, like everything has dimmed, and Steve has put out his hand. Tony doesn’t take it. He grunts. Paces. 

“You’re tired,” Steve says. “It’s okay. You need some sleep. You too, Pepper. It’s really late.”

“I don’t need to sleep,” Tony says. “I never need to sleep.”

“I couldn’t have slept anyway,” Pepper tells him. “I was busy being worried about you.”

“Well, that’s dumb,” Steve says. “Both of you. I’m fine.” 

 

Pepper laughs. Like outright laughs, like it’s actually funny. It kind of is, in a way. Steve’s assertion is _strikingly_ incorrect, and that actually is pretty funny. Pepper doesn’t even sound sarcastic about it, either, she sounds exactly like she’s doing a nice, natural laugh, and Tony appreciates it, the way it breaks everything up. He bets Steve does too.

 

And then he’s sure he does. Because Pepper pulls her chair up over to the bed and leans forward, and puts a hand over Steve’s and Steve grasps it. 

 

Pepper notices. “Hi,” she says, softly. “Okay. We can wait a little, if you want.”

“Thanks though,” Steve says. “Thanks for, you know, thanks for hanging out. But yeah. I’m okay.”

 

Pepper nods. She runs her other hand up Steve’s arm, then down again. Brings it to rest over their clasped hands, strokes there. “Maybe you’ll feel better when you eat.”

Steve nods. “Did you know Tony’s never had meatloaf?”

“I’ve had meatloaf,” Tony says. “I’ve had meatloaf in my life.”

 

“Tony is very weird about food,” Pepper says. “There are basically three things he’ll eat: junk food, seafood, and California Snob. And that’s it. Don’t bother with anything else, it won’t work, and it never has.”

 

Tony rolls his eyes. “I’m not weird about food, Pepper. Everybody else is weird about food. You basically just listed all the kinds of food there are.”

Pepper laughs again. “I guess you’re used to this by now, right?”

 

“Uh huh,” Steve says. “Except, you know, he’ll eat something else if you just… put it next to him when he’s working. Just kind of within arm’s reach.”

“When he’s busy? You learned that trick too, huh?”

“Yeah, and it works. But did he used to get weird about anything foreign? I mean, besides Japanese food. Which for some reason is okay. I don’t know why.”

“Seafood,” Pepper says. “And California Snob.”

“Right.”

“And yes. Tony Gets Weird About Foreign Food was basically the narrative theme of all of our holidays.”

 

Tony is about to say something to break up this cute little domestic exchange here, because it is not remotely funny, and is in fact pretty weird and insulting, and also not true, because shawarma, but then Pepper says, “oh hey, I have a story to tell you! Guess who I met!” 

 

And Tony gets it. He resents that he’s so slow on the uptake, which probably actually is because he’s tired, but he still resents it. Stark men are made of machinery. They don’t get tired.

 

“I don’t know,” Steve says. He smiles. “King of England?”

“Queen,” Pepper says. “Since 1953. But no, I met Bill Watterson.” 

 

Steve, Tony notices, is really excited by Bill Watterson. Tony has no idea who that is, but he assumes he’ll figure it out from the story. He sits on the bed, perched on the edge of it, arms folded still.

“How?” Steve says. 

“At a closing party, for a readers and writers festival,” Pepper says. “Stark did some sponsorship, but mostly I was there for the company wine, naturally.”

 

Steve laughs. It sounds restricted, like it’s getting caught somehow. Like it hurts him to do it. He cuts it off quickly, but neither Steve nor Pepper acknowledge it, so Tony doesn’t either.

 

“So Bill was on a panel,” Pepper tells him. Her face is gently animated, she’s still holding Steve’s hand, still doing little strokes on it. “In the festival, I mean. He told me what the panel was about, but I’ve forgotten it, I’m sorry. I wish I’d read the catalog when I signed off on it – if I signed off on it? Maybe I didn’t actually, that might have been somebody else - because we could have gone to that. He was on it with Pendleton Ward. Pendleton Ward’s _Adventure Time_ , right?”

“Uh huh. Was he there?”

“I didn’t recognize him. I didn’t recognize Bill either, we just happened to talk. I wish I’d taken you to this thing!”

“What’s he like, though? Bill Watterson?”

 

“Nice,” Pepper says. “Very regular, and very polite. He reminded me of you, actually: he looked like he half wanted to be there and half didn’t.”

Steve cracks a real smile at that. “Wow, that’s a… that’s a humbling description.”

 

Pepper grins. “Just wait. Anyway, I said I had a friend who drew comics, which is you, by the way. And that I liked what I’d seen of _Calvin and Hobbes_.” 

 

_Calvin and Hobbes_ , Tony thinks. “The kid and the tiger.”

“It’s really good,” Steve tells him. “It’s good in a lot of ways. The writing is good, but also the way he draws. He uses brushes. I’ve tried that, but it isn’t working for me. Practice, I guess.”

“I’ve seen _Calvin and Hobbes_.”

“You’re kind of Hobbesish, did you know that?” Steve says. “Sometimes I think that, when I’m reading it. ‘This is what Tony would do’. I mean, if you were a stuffed tiger.”

 

Tony snorts. “So basically, every time you read a comic book, you think I’m one of the animals. I’m starting to think that maybe this maybe says something about me. Or comics. What’s with the cute animals in everything? What was that one you showed me last week? Goodbye Chunky something?”

“ _Good-bye, Chunky Rice_ ,” Steve says. “No, but… okay, right. There’s a strip where they have – Calvin and Hobbes have – a treehouse, and Hobbes won’t let Calvin up in it unless he recites an entire poem about what’s great about tigers. ‘Tigers are nimble, and light on their toes…’ Hobbes isn’t even embarrassed about it, he just smirks.”

 

Tony snorts again. 

“So I mean that’s… that’s pretty Tony, right?”

“Yeah, it’s pretty Tony.”

“I’m telling a story, guys,” Pepper says, in what’s apparently mock offense.

 

“Sorry,” Steve says. He smiles. “Please, continue.”

“Okay,” Pepper tells them. “So I’m talking to Bill Watterson, and I’ve had maybe three glasses of white wine. So, not drunk, but definitely… affected.”

“Right.” 

“And, I’d said that I liked the comic, and he said, thank you, very politely. I’m not sure he expected to be complimented. And then I said…”

 

She shakes her head. She’s smiling, blushing a little. “This is so embarrassing.”

Steve is grinning in anticipation. “What?”

“I told him he looked like Calvin’s dad.” 

 

Steve starts to laugh. It sounds the same as it did before, and he stops. “He does, though. I’ve seen photos. I’m pretty sure it’s intentional too.” 

“Really? I don’t know, he looked really uncomfortable. And then he sort of… edged away from me…”

“Maybe he just doesn’t like shindigs?”

“Maybe not. Maybe cartoonists don’t? You’re a quiet people, I’ve come to realize.”

 

“I like shindigs sometimes,” Steve says. “I would have gone to that with you.”

“I think you’d have had a great time. I’m really kicking myself for not thinking of it.”

“Don’t,” Steve says. “It’s much funnier to hear about you goofing up with Bill Watterson.”

 

“Oh, thanks,” Pepper says. Tony sees her squeezing Steve’s hand, and Steve squeezing it back. “You’re right, I shouldn’t have worried. I should never worry about you.”

 

Steve smirks. “When I say it’s intentional… I mean, he doesn’t have any kids from what I read. But some of Calvin’s dad has his kind of stuff. You know, how he bicycles. That’s Watterson. But some of it is his own dad.”

“You really know a lot about this.”

“Well, yeah. I mean, I like _Calvin and Hobbes_ , it’s really good. Did you know he didn’t want to merchandize? Watterson? He would have made a lot of money from that.”

“Why didn’t he?”

“I guess he thought it cheapened it,” Steve says. He thinks about that for a second. “It kind of does.” 

 

Then he says, “I’m pretty pissed off about that notebook. That’s really…”

“We’ll find it, Stevie,” Tony says. 

“What notebook?”

“I had it with me,” Steve says. “I had it with me when I…”

 

He’s taken his hand out from Pepper’s, and he’s pinching the bridge of his nose, eyes closed and frowning. 

“Steve?” Tony says. 

“I’m okay.”

“You spazzing out a little?”

“I’m okay.”

“Hurts?”

“I told you I’m okay, Tony! You wanna shut up now, please?” 

 

Tony has pressed the buzzer without even thinking about it. It’s a split second reaction, based entirely on Steve’s tone, and the way he’s brought his shoulders forward like he’s going to do something with them. He wonders dimly if it’s the wrong move, and also it stings, weirdly, that Steve has snarled at him, but he does it anyway, and then it’s done. Pepper gives him a nod. 

 

Steve doesn’t seem to notice. “Fuck!” he says, in a hissing, angry tone. “Fuck, fuck!”

“Steve,” Pepper says. “Steve, hey. What happened?”

“It’s not helping anybody!” Steve says. “I can’t _think_ properly!”

“What happened, Steve?”

 

“Being stupid is what happened,” Steve says. “It’s nobody’s fault but mine. What the hell am I doing at art school?”

“We went over this, Steve,” Tony says. “We went over this a lot of times. You’re a good thinker, and you deserve to go to college.”

“People are in danger!” Steve says. “I shouldn’t be talking about fucking art! It’s just a waste of everybody’s time!”

 

Pepper, Tony notices, has leaned back in her chair. It’s subtle, but it’s apparent. She’s tense. She’s watching Steve like she’s tense. She folds her arms. Tony has unfolded his, and he has one hand on Steve’s leg. 

 

“The two things aren’t mutually exclusive, honey,” he says. “And as soon as you feel better we’ll do something about the rest of it.”

“It’s not enough, Tony. _People are in danger_. Because I was _fucking around_. Because I thought it would be a good idea to draw _comics_.”

“You want to get on top of your language before the nurse comes in.”

“ _I told you not to do that.”_

“Yeah, well,” Tony says. “Good thing you’re not the boss of me.”

 

It’s the same nurse who answers the buzzer. She greats them brusquely and takes Steve’s temperature, his blood pressure, his pulse. Looks under the dressing and tapes it back down again. Writes all of it on the chart. It’s all very professional and functional, but she doesn’t seem bothered to be here, or even tired. Steve bears all of this with silent endurance. “How has everything been until now?” the nurse asks him.

“Fine,” Steve says. “I’ve been fine.”

 

“Nope,” Tony says. 

The nurse looks up at Tony. “I’m sorry?”

“Hasn’t been fine.”

“Medically it has,” Steve says.

“Nope,” Tony says again. 

The nurse says, “Steve?”

“I guess he means I reacted,” Steve says. Slowly. In a low voice like he doesn’t want to admit it. 

 

“What does that mean, reacted?” The nurse asks. 

“I had…” Steve says. “I panicked some.”

“You mean you had an anxiety attack?”

“Yeah,” Steve says. His voice is uneven. “Yeah, I did. But I mean… you know, on a scale…”

“He has this thing about scales,” Tony says. “It’s about 80-90% bullshit. You can ignore it. He has PTSD and this is bad for him. You need to do something about this infection.”

 

Steve looks off, angrily. Not at Tony. His mouth is set in a sulky line, like a petulant little kid, and he’s working his jaw some, but he doesn’t say anything. The nurse looks back and forth between both of them in a way that Tony thinks is not so much professional as it is actually pretty human. “We’re still waiting on Doctor Banner,” she says. 

“Where the hell is he?” Tony demands. 

 

“Close,” the nurse says. “I know that much. But that’s it. These people are not exactly forthcoming with information.”

“They’ll learn to be,” Steve says. “They’d better.”

 

The nurse shoots him a confused look. “It’s not that bad,” Steve says, turning back to her, making his eyes wide, reassuring, almost imploring. He’s deliberately trying to reassure the nurse, and it’s obvious to Tony that he’s doing that. Pepper rolls her eyes, and Tony gets it. He feels that irritation too. He feels it rising in his throat like bile. But he says nothing. 

 

“So when did you have this anxiety attack?” the nurse is asking. 

Steve says, “I really don’t know.”

“Half an hour ago?” Tony says. “An hour? I guess it was around 2am, 2:30? What time is it now?” He looks at his watch. “An hour ago?” 

“And what happened?”

“A panic attack,” Steve says, flatly. It’s that same kind of disdainful voice. 

 

The nurse ignores it. “It’s really important to be clear, Steve.”

“I couldn’t breathe,” Steve says. “You know, my heart, all of that stuff. Just your regular, garden-variety panic attack. Nothing fancy. I don’t know, it was regular, what do you want to know?” 

 

Pepper has got up out of her chair, and is pacing a little. Tony worries about that, actually, but he doesn’t have time to think it all the way through right now. He sees her hugging herself, biting her lip. The nurse seems unfazed though. “Did you start breathing normally again afterwards? Did you have any trouble with that?”

“I’m breathing normally now, aren’t I?”

 

That last sentence is an honest to god snap. Harsh, and aggressive, and mean sounding. The room rings from it. Steve thins his lips, furiously, and then he grits his teeth and looks away again. “Uh… sorry,” he says. “I’m sorry.” 

 

“It’s alright,” the nurse says. “Okay: I’m asking you questions about your panic attack because your temperature’s up to 104 and I want to know if you could have had a seizure, does that help clarify things?”

“No,” Steve says. “I mean, yes, it does, but no it wasn’t that. I mean, I recognized it, I… I’m really sorry, I’m just… I’m not clear. I can’t concentrate.”

“Yes, you’re dehydrated,” the nurse says. “I’m going to put a drip in, if that’s okay with you.” 

“Yeah, fine,” Steve says. 

“I know you didn’t want any machines, but I think this one’s a necessity.”

“Yeah,” Steve says, again. “Fine.”

 

He sounds weary. Tony thinks he gets that. Steve is probably pretty over having things stuck into him.

“How are you feeling now, besides that?” the nurse asks him.

“I guess okay. I mean, I’m… these guys have just been talking to me, but I...”

“Do you need me to contact your psychologist?”

“No,” Steve says. “No. It’s just… a management issue here. I can do it myself. Besides, it’s not like he can do anything for me. I’ve just gotta ride it out, like this other stuff.”

 

The nurse nods. Apparently, they must keep all this stuff in that little closet in here, because she’s already found the right kind of needle, and then she’s coming over and she’s holding Steve’s wrist and she’s sliding it into Steve’s arm. Steve doesn’t really react to it. Maybe because it’s a small pain on a scale of Steve’s life, or maybe because he’s just done with reacting, but he doesn’t react. Tony does though. “He has…” Tony says, “he’s just… be careful.”

“She’s careful, Tony,” Steve says. “It’s her job.”

 

“That’s right,” the nurse says, but she doesn’t say it as sharply as Tony expects her to. She tapes it the needle down with white medical tape. “Tony doesn’t know that, probably,” she tells Steve. “I think he’s worried about you.”

“Lot of that going around,” Steve says. 

 

“I don’t worry,” Tony says. 

“I’m still trying to track down your notebook,” the nurse tells them. “But I’m pretty sure it came in with you.”

“Okay,” Steve says. “Thanks.”

 

“Listen, I’ve got to go,” Pepper says, abruptly. Tony had almost forgotten she was there. She’s standing by the door, her briefcase in hand. Everybody looks at her. 

 

“I’ve got to run these files back to the office,” she says. “Can I get you anything while I’m there?”

“You can get yourself some sleep,” Steve says. “There’s no need to be running around after me.”

“We’re really going to do this every time, Steve? Because it’s getting pretty boring.”

 

Steve is a little too disorientated to react to that the way Pepper intends him to, Tony thinks. He doesn’t get everything about their vibe but he thinks Steve is supposed to give some kind of response he isn’t giving. The nurse is threading the bag attachment into the needle, and Steve just blinks and looks confused and says, “sorry.” 

 

Pepper sighs. “Can I get you something from your room?”

“You’re a CEO,” Steve tells her, firmly. “You have better things to do.”

“Well, maybe I can get my assistant to do it.”

“I thought that was Tony,” Steve says. Pepper flashes a quick smile, and Tony, under the circumstances, lets it slide. 

“I’ve got to drop off these files anyway. Just tell me what you want.”

 

Steve takes a second with that. “Can you… bring me a shirt in? I just… I want to wear actual clothes, and I don’t think I’ll see that baseball shirt again.”

“Sure.”

“Just get me a shirt and a sweater. I don’t care what one. They’re all basically the same. Uh… please, I mean.”

“Okay,” Pepper says. She looks at her watch. “Give me an hour. Two at most.”

“Thank you.”

“You’re welcome,” Pepper says. “I’ve got to go.”

“Walk her out, Tony,” Steve says, bossily, like he’s somewhat unimpressed that Tony needs to be told that. The nurse smiles, shakes her head. 

 

Tony walks Pepper out. “So, thanks.”

“You don’t need anything?”

“No, I’m okay, I’m covered.”

“Okay, well.”

“Listen, could you not, maybe?” Tony says. 

 

Pepper says, “what?”

 

Tony knows what it sounds like, but he doesn’t care. He keeps his face firm and his gaze steady. “Don’t tell Steve off like that. He’s not trying to be annoying. He’s just had a pretty hard life. He doesn’t expect people to hand him things.”

 

“Tony…” Pepper says. She sounds exasperated, and she looks it, too. For a minute, Tony thinks they’re actually going to fight about it. But then she half-smiles. “Tony, that’s really sweet…”

“He’s not as tough as he thinks he is,” Tony says. “And he’s sick and, you know. That’s a big deal for him…” 

“… it’s kind of irritatingly sweet, actually, because, you know, I could have done with some of that adoring compassion but better late than…”

“…but it’s just facts, I’m not doing anything. You don’t have to get a sweater for him, but don’t tell him off.”

 

“Tony,” Pepper says. “Okay. I didn’t really mean to, I’m just tired.”

“Okay, well.”

“Tony,” Pepper says again. “Okay.” 

“I mean, thank you, and stuff.”

“I kind of find it harder to deal with repressed male anger when I’m tired, Tony.” 

 

Tony says, “what?”

“It’s between me and Steve. Okay? So I take your point, but I don’t need you to be an asshole about it.”

 

Tony says, “what?” again, and Pepper sighs. She’s exhausted, Tony realizes. And she’s exhausted not only because she’s been up all night, but because of the particular strain of the situation: the ex-boyfriend and his new boyfriend, and their both being fucking dudes all over the place. _College_ , Tony thinks, _my god, college_. The fact that he is even thinking about who has what between whose legs is _ridiculous_ , but he is, and he says, “sorry,” anyway. 

 

And he means it. About a lot more than this specific situation. “I mean, you should’ve predicted I’d be a dick, being Anthony Asshole and all, but sorry.”

 

Pepper snort-laughs. “Fuck you, Tony.”

“I thought you took that off the table?”

Pepper smacks his arm. “You are the worst person in the world. I hope you know that.”

“For some Mystery Party, no less, some of your ‘Own Things Going On’. Is it somebody I know?”

“Believe it or not, I might have just actually not wanted to sleep with you.”

“Impossible,” Tony says. “Impossible.”

 

“Oh, believe me,” Pepper says. “It’s very possible.”

“Is not.”

“Is.”

“Not.”

“ _Gross_ ,” Pepper says. 

 

“We should talk about this, one day, maybe,” Tony says. “I mean it. Properly. Not the sex. Just the… I don’t know. There’s stuff I don’t get. Maybe you should say some things to me.”

 

“Are you high?” Pepper asks him. It sounds like a genuine question. “Have you had secret brain surgery? Who are you, and what have you done with Tony Stark?”

 

Tony wonders. He goes back in and sits down to watch and hear about the last of the nurse’s business with Steve, who has apparently settled firmly into being Captain Surly about the whole affair, but he wonders. 


	5. 101 Most Dangerous Professors

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Bruce arrives and is exceptional at his job (or, one of his jobs).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Heads up, there is some extremely gross surgery shit in this chapter. Please do pass it on by if you feel it might make you feel unpleasant.

Bruce arrives as the nurse is leaving. Tony hears them talking at the door, but he can’t make out any of it. It’s not shock now though, just exhaustion. He’s too tired to concentrate that hard on something that far away, even if “that hard” actually means “at all” and “that far away” means “a couple of meters.” All of his energy is focused on not snapping at Steve, at not giving Steve anything that will make him think he’s done something wrong. He knows he’s running on reserve power. 

And then Bruce enters burdened by packages, holding his briefcase with two fingers. It’s arresting, striking, in the stark brightness of the recovery room. The collar of his sportcoat is half turned up, and he’s talking fast, shedding takeout boxes onto the bed in a kind of disheveled flurry. “Right,” he says. “Okay. Right. Sorry. Hi. I’m sorry it took me so long to get here, I was coming from DC.”

Steve perks up. Actually, ‘perks up’ is probably the wrong phrase, Tony thinks, because his expression is about as perky as cancer, but he shifts his face out of surly disconnect and into paying attention. “Something going on down there?” he says. Bruce hands over a takeout cup, with a straw in it, while Steve addresses Bruce in the voice of Captain America. It’s kind of bizarre. 

“No,” Bruce says. “Or at least, not that I know of. I wish I could tell you I’d been receiving essential information from the President, but actually, I was just goofing around at the Smithsonian. I got on the train as soon as I could. They tell me your people were going to send a jet, but I thought it might not be the best idea under the circumstances. I’m sorry it took so long, guys, I really am. How are you, Steve?”

Steve, Tony notices, is already opening packages. He leans over to see what’s in there. Meatloaf, and green beans, and mashed potatoes. Other things. “I’m okay. What’s the situation out there?”  
“I don’t know any more than you do, probably. How are you?”  
“I’m okay.”

“Right,” Bruce says. “Well, I’ll check that out in a minute.”  
“Hungry though. Thanks for bringing the food.”  
“Absolutely no problem.”  
“So nobody told you anything on the way?”  
“I mean, sure, I had an escort,” Bruce says. “I know what you know, let’s just leave it there.”  
“You wouldn’t be holding out on me, would you, Banner?”  
“Couldn’t if I was,” Bruce says.  
Steve nods. 

“So confess, Banner,” Tony says, arms folded, leaning back in his chair. “If it wasn’t official business that took you to the City of Magnificent Intentions, then what? Are you seeing someone down there or something?” 

Bruce’s expression is hard to read. It’s not a no, but it’s sure not a yes either. He picks up Steve’s chart and sits himself in the other chair, the one Pepper has vacated. “I was there for fun. Sorry to disappoint, kids.”  
“You go to the Smithsonian for fun? That’s adorable.”  
“Well,” Bruce says. “Also because – and this is actually my reasoning here – because I though if I had something nice to look forward to, I might actually grade on the train.”

Tony laughs. Like for real. So maybe it’s the end of the world as they know it, but Bruce was at the Smithsonian, for fun. And grading. “I bet you graded everything.”  
“I graded four,” Bruce says. “Four of sixty. I’ll do them on the last two days, like I always do, and there’s nothing I can do about it. Grading induces a kind of… pathological avoidance, it just does.”

“Sorry I made you rush,” Steve says. He does sound sorry. “I don’t know, I’ll take your opinion on it, but I’m pretty sure I’m fine, and I’m sure not doing anybody any good in here. We need information, so just… thank you for coming, and whatever you can do to sell these guys on letting me out would be appreciated.”

“Right,” Bruce says. He’s gone kind of still, Tony notices. Like he’s watching Steve very carefully. Steve, who is foraging for cutlery. He finds a couple of plastic forks, napkins.

“I’m okay though,” Steve says. “Really.”  
“Well, I’ll check that out when you’re done, but I’m glad to hear it.”  
“Did you eat?” Steve says. “I’m going to eat if that’s okay with you.”

Bruce smiles. He looks tired. Probably because it’s something like 4am by now, and he is tired. That and the air in the hospital. Outside it would have been fresh, living. In here it’s sealed and sterilized, in a way that makes everything feel like it’s already half-asleep. “It’s okay with me,” Bruce says.  
“You don’t want any of this?”  
“No, it’s fine. I ate down there. Then again on the train.” 

Steve nods. “Tony?”  
“Yeah?”  
“Eat something, okay? You’ll fall over.”  
“I’m okay right now.”  
“No you’re not,” Steve says. “Come on. Eat something.”

Bruce has taken his glasses off. He cleans them on his shirt, puts them back on, picks up the chart again. “Did you know Tony’s never had a meatloaf?” Steve asks him.  
“It wouldn’t surprise me,” Bruce says.  
 “I’ve had a meatloaf, Steve,” Tony says. 

Steve just looks at him. It’s not so much Command Stare in this instance as it is plain old Steve Face, but either way, Tony knows when he’s beat. He leans up out of his chair to get a better look at the packages, and when he does, Steve cups his chin. 

It’s not the same kind of gesture it was from Pepper. It’s not comforting so much as it’s perfunctory and slightly disciplinary, like Tony, this time, is the fractious kid. “Try it,” Steve says, and lets go. “Just eat it. It won’t kill you.”

Tony feels himself wanting to protest all of this, but he doesn’t. Steve mama-birding from his hospital bed is undignified, and irritating as all get out, but he’s way too tired to start articulating that, and also it’s Bruce and he kind of just doesn’t care what Bruce thinks about him anymore. It’s some stupid hour in the morning anyway, and he is hungry and pissed off, so maybe he’ll just take the fork Steve’s offering him. 

Yeah. The meatloaf is crunchy, and then chewy, and then soft. Texturally, it’s weird, but it’s an okay weird, and the beef is like hamburger and it won’t kill him and it’s not that embarrassing. “Not bad,” he says.  
“Did I tell you?” Steve says.  
“Yeah, you told me.”  
“It’s not that weird. It’s just ground beef and an egg and breadcrumbs. If you can eat a cheeseburger, you can eat a meatloaf.”

“This doesn’t have any cheese on it,” Tony says, petulantly. And he can hear himself and he wishes he couldn’t. But Steve pauses, and looks at him kind of fondly, and strokes the hair back from his temple.  
“Have some mac and cheese,” he says, finding his own fork again. “But sometime I’ll make you one with cheese in it.” 

It’s exactly the right combination of genuinely reassuring and utterly mortifying for Tony to concede, take one of the packages, and sit back down. Bruce’s expression is hard to read, and Tony is silently daring him to say something about Steve’s adoring domesticity, but Bruce doesn’t. He’s just reading Steve’s chart again. “How’re things up here?”

“We don’t know anything yet, like I said,” Steve says. His expression is serious, but that’s somewhat undercut by the fact that he’s also shoveling meatloaf into his mouth at a rate of knots. “They haven’t told me anything since they brought me in, and they didn’t tell Tony anything either. I think. Right? Tony? You didn’t say.”

“Natasha has a lead, or someone does,” Tony says. “That’s all I know. She took off maybe around 10:30?”  
Steve frowns. “I don’t know, I feel like I’m getting pretty close to just shaking people down. I don’t like not knowing.”  
“Well look, hey…” Tony starts to say, but,  
“I meant,” Bruce says, “about you.”  
“It’s all there,” Steve says. “And you already asked. Twice. Like I told you, I’ve been okay. I probably just need you to sign off or something.”

Tony rolls his eyes, for maybe the millionth time this evening. Or maybe not - he’s pretty sure he’s managed to not roll his eyes every time he’s wanted to, but he’s lost count of the number of times the impulse has come up. “Just, you know, a minor panic attack. And he threw up from the anesthetic. Not gonna lie, that kind of freaked me out.”

Steve shoots him a look, but Tony shrugs. “What, Steve? Did you think turning on Command Voice would mean that Bruce suddenly can’t read your chart or something? You’re not a doctor, okay? And he is.”

“Yeah, I see that here,” Bruce says. “That’s fine. Uh, I mean, sorry Steve, it probably didn’t feel fine when it was happening. I’m just saying that it doesn’t surprise me, medically speaking. If they managed to put you out, then they were managing to dose you hard enough to make you sick. I don’t think that’s anything to be concerned about.” 

Steve nods. Chews. “Yeah, I figured.”  
“Did it last for very long?”  
“No, it was pretty brief, all things considered.”  
“Uh huh. Well, good.”

Steve sips his tea. “Yeah, um. You know, I’d just like to get out of here, so I mean, hopefully you can help.”  
“Hopefully I can. Is the drip helping?”  
“Yeah,” Steve says. “Yeah, a lot. I’m a lot clearer. That might have been the whole problem, you know?”

Bruce nods. He gives them a while to finish eating, making notes and light conversation. Dinosaurs at the Smithsonian, he says. He always looks at the dinosaurs, with which, he tells them, he feels a weird kinship, and isn’t that strange but explicable too? Tony is briefly reminded of Natasha’s Tyrannosaurus comment, and maybe because of that, when they’re done with the meatloaf, he gets up and throws the packages into the trash. It’s probably the first time in his life he’s ever cleaned up anything that wasn’t the lab, but whatever, it’s as good a time as any to learn. 

Steve makes a face at Tony while he’s doing that. A face like he wants to make a comment about it, a making-light, boy-is-this-stupid kind of face, look-at-you-doing-domestic-labor-like-you-never-do-at-home, Tony. He keeps making that face while he slips the gown off his shoulders, and while Bruce rolls up his sleeves and washes his hands, then pulls on a pair of gloves from the box next to the sink. He steps over, leans forward and peels back the dressing on Steve’s chest. Tony sees the incision scar, and he sees that it is stylistically familiar, that it is like his own, only fresher.

Tony can’t really tell what Bruce is doing. He’s got the chart next to him on the bed, and he looks at it, but besides that, he’s just kind of pressing on the pink skin around the wound with his gloved fingers. He must know what he’s doing, somewhere. He’s a doctor. He must know. “Does it hurt when I do this?” he asks Steve.

Steve, Tony thinks, is trying pretty hard not to look incredulous. “Yeah,” he says. “It hurts.”  
“Lean forward?” Bruce says, to Steve, and Steve does, and then he winces under Bruce’s hand.  
“Yeah, I thought so,” Bruce says. He leans back, looks at the chart again. Presses around the wound again. “Again?”  
“Again what?”  
“Lean a little.”  
Steve does. Winces again.  
“Yep,” Bruce says. “Okay.” He pats the dressing down again, and sits back.

“There’s some postoperative inflammation,” he says, peeling off his gloves, holding them. “That’s normal to the point of standard, and it’s normal for a person to run a low fever off the back of that. But it’s pretty striking in you, which is why, I think, both I and doctor Klein are reading it as indicating some internal infection, are you with me so far?”  
“Uh huh?”  
“But actually, I think it’s a lot less serious than anything in your heart. What it is, in my opinion, is that I don’t think your body likes those sternum plates very much. I’m actually going to recommend that they’re removed immediately.”

“What?” Steve says. It’s guileless. He’s honestly confused. They didn’t tell him, Tony thinks. They wouldn’t have thought to explain that even for Steve they’d’ve put plates in his chest, so the bones they broke to get in there would heal the way they’re supposed to. They really should have told him about that. People ought to tell a person when they’re making them part machinery. 

“It’s another complication of your… particular physiology, I think,” Bruce is saying. He gestures with his hands to illustrate. “To put your ribcage back together, the surgeon will have used a… kind of titanium plate. That’s a standard thing, by the way. It used to be wires but they tended to have higher rates of infection, so it’s plates. They’re very small, but I think you’re rejecting them the same way you rejected the anesthetic. Your bones have already started to heal, and from their perspective, there’s just a foreign object in there, gumming up the works. Make sense?”

“Right, I think so,” Steve says, but it doesn’t sound like he actually understands any of it. Tony does, he thinks. If Steve is a machine, he’s a purpose-built one. You can’t put just any old parts in there. 

“The screws have already come loose,” Bruce says. “That’s why it hurts like that, and that’s why it’s making you sick. The plates are basically just rattling around in there. The sooner we deal with this, the better.”  
“You mean I have to go back under?”  
“I think it can probably done under local.”

Steve takes a second with that. And Tony thought he’d seen every permutation of Determined Face tonight but he’s wrong, because this is a new one. Steve sets his jaw. Sucks in his bottom lip a little. “I figure,” he says, “local will probably work on me about as well as general did.”

“I figure you’re probably right,” Bruce says, quietly. “This is going to be painful for you, I’m sorry.”  
“Sure,” Steve says. “Nothing’s going to be painless tonight. We better do it though.”  
“You’ll be okay, Steve,” says Bruce. “It’s not another heart surgery. Nothing needs to be opened up in a major way, it’s just a simple matter of removing something from underneath your skin.”  
“Okay,” Steve says. “Okay, thanks. So, let’s.”  
“I’d like to do it as soon as we can, but it doesn’t have to be right this second. Let’s just take a moment here.”  
“Thanks,” Steve says, again. “But I’m okay. I’m good to go. We can go now.”

Bruce doesn’t move. He’s just sitting on the edge of the bed, still, quiet, and his gaze is steady and even. “You’re having a pretty bad time tonight, I gather.”

Steve obviously doesn’t know how to answer that. Tony can see him shifting between the desire to rebuff it sharply, and the knowledge that that might come off as kind of rude contextually, seeing as Bruce is clearly being considerate and has come all the way from DC to examine him. And Steve doesn’t like being rude. Even when he’s angry, he’s polite. Snapping at the nurse weighed on him, Tony knows that. “I’ve been okay,” he says.

“You’re always okay,” Bruce says. Still calm. Still quiet. “But I’m sorry that it’s not over yet.”  
“Could be worse, right?”  
“Well, sure. It’s never so bad that it can’t be worse. But it’s plenty bad. This is pretty scary stuff.”  
“It’s not that bad,” Steve says. “You know, on a scale.”

Bruce smiles, kind of wryly. “Sure,” he says. “On a scale of recent torment, I guess it’s about Pain in the Ass level horror, but that’s kind of bad enough right now, don’t you think? Think you’re going to be okay while this goes on?”  
“Would it matter?”  
“It wouldn’t matter medically, but it does matter to me.” 

Tony loves Bruce so much right now. This teacher thing Bruce has going on with Steve, this gentle kindness, this ability to be a grown man of Tony’s age talking to a young man of Steve’s age as if he, Bruce, is capable of being responsible, he loves it, he’s grateful for it. Bruce is so good at it that Tony almost believes him. “Is it going to be too much for you right now?” Bruce says. “Because if it is, then we can wait until you’re feeling calmer. The sooner the better, but it’s you that has to deal with it, either way.”

Steve looks away from everybody, fixing his stare on the far wall. “I’ll be okay.”  
“Would it help if I did it?” Bruce asks.  
“What do you mean? Are you saying it’s optional? Because sure, if it’s optional then yeah, don’t, but you made it sound like it wasn’t.”  
“I mean, would you like me to perform the operation.”

Steve still isn’t looking at anybody. “I don’t want to make you…”  
“Steve,” Bruce says, “that isn’t what I asked you. I’m no surgeon, but this is a simple procedure, and it’s well within my abilities. You wouldn’t be making me do anything I can’t do. Would you like me to be the one who does it?”  
“Well, I don’t…”  
“Steve,” Bruce says, “I’m asking you what you want.”

It takes Steve a long time to answer. Tony doesn’t say anything in that time, he just stands there with his arms folded, waiting, watching Steve stare down the far wall like he doesn’t remember there are people here. His expression is borderline scary, in terms of how absent he seems. “Then yeah,” he says, finally. “Yeah, I would, thank you. I mean, I trust you.”  
“Okay,” Bruce says. “Well then, that’s what we’ll do. I’ll let them know out there, and then I’ll do it right away.”

He’s as good as his word. He leaves promptly, and once again, it’s just Tony and Steve, alone in a hospital recovery room. It seems like it’s been a long time since that’s happened. Steve is chewing on his bottom lip, not looking at Tony. 

But Tony doesn’t choke this time. Score one for meatloaf, probably, having provided a little fuel. “Shit, Stevie,” he says. “This sucks. This really sucks. I’m sorry.”

“Yeah,” Steve says. “I was kind of hoping for a break and no more surgery, but I guess you gotta play it as it lays, right? I’ll live.”  
“Yeah, you will.”  
“It’s not the worst thing that’s ever happened to me, either.”  
“Well, I mean, you’ve already died once,” Tony concedes. “Twice. Speaking practically, your scale is always going to be a little off from that. You probably need to adjust the baseline.” 

Steve cracks a sort of half-smile. “Look who’s talking.”  
“Yeah,” Tony says. “So I know. Are you really going to be okay with this? Because you just say the word, honey, and we wait. We wait until Bruce can make you a super valium or something, I don’t even know what. Maybe I can hit you over the head. Just say the word.”  
“No. No, I want this to be over.” He chews his lip again. “Do you mind… is it okay with you if you stay here while it…? I’m sorry. Tony, I’m… I’m sorry.”

It’s not okay. It’s really not okay at all. But Tony swallows, and he says “okay,” anyway. He says it in a flat voice, and he pulls his chair back over and sits in it.  
“Really okay?”  
“Really okay.”  
“You’re not…?”  
“I’m okay,” Tony says. “If I’m gonna trust you on that, then you have to trust me too. I’m doing this kind of… epic maturity thing here right now, just generally, with all the feelings and that, so I need you to not question that too much or it might, you know, unravel.”

That little half-smile from Steve again. It’s genuine, but it’s also extremely pained, and Tony wonders how he possibly couldn’t have found that obvious already.  
“Well sure, that must be tiring,” Steve says. 

“Could be a lot worse, don’t you think?”  
“Maybe everything’s gotta get worse before it can get better?” Steve says. He grits his teeth. “As in life, so in heart surgery. Sorry, I’m getting philosophical, huh?”

Tony smiles at him, though really, he smiles for him. “Uh huh,” he says. “Captain Existentialism. Too much college.”

Steve snorts. “What was happening with you, before? I didn’t know if you wanted me to ask you about it in front of Pepper.”  
“Nothing,” Tony says. “Don’t worry about it.”  
Steve makes a face. “Tony,” he says. “I told you I needed you to be normal.” 

Tony is seconds from assholishly pointing out that his routine defensiveness is pretty normal, but he knows that’s not what Steve means. “It’s okay,” he says. “I guess, you know, it’s heart stuff. I guess I’m thinking about some things I’m not that excited to be thinking about.”  
“I’m sorry.”  
“Don’t have to be… look, Stevie, it’s okay. This was going to come up eventually. The fact that it’s your heart is pretty… I mean, it’s uncomfortably specific, sure. I have some stuff there, you know that. But we knew this was going to happen. We knew one of us was going to get hurt eventually. And it’s finally happened, and we’re doing okay.”  
   
“I guess,” Steve says. He’s looking at his hands. He frowns. Looks up. “Really?”  
“Really what?”  
“Are we really okay? Are you really okay with this?”  
   
For the second time in 24 hours, Tony feels too damn old to be where he is. Except it’s not the kind of old that comes with sneering at hipsters this time. It’s the kind of old that makes a gulf between being a tired old man and a being young guy who’s just so worried he can fuck it up by accident. Because Steve looks like he should be at college and nowhere near anything terrible, and he really, really looks like he needs to know. 

“You think we’re not?” Tony asks him. He rubs his beard. He rocks back in the chair a little.  
“I don’t… I don’t know.”  
“Because I stressed out a little?”

Steve shakes his head. “Because this is kind of above and beyond. I get the feeling you’re finding it kind of triggering.”

Score one for Steve’s deadly accurate feelings too. That’s why he’s a Captain, Tony guesses. Instinct. “I’ve had death matches with terrorists, Steve,” he says. “Sitting in a chair hanging out with you, even if I have to watch something gross, is pretty objectively lightweight by comparison.”  
   
Steve thins his lips again. It’s not quite Firm Chinned Commandant now, but it’s like that. It’s in that ballpark of Steve's Expressions. “I just don’t want you to worry about me,” he says.  
“I didn’t. I don’t.”  
“I don’t want you to feel bad because of me.”  
“Steve…”  
“You shouldn’t even be here. I shouldn’t ask you to stay.”  
“You’re right, you shouldn’t have to ask me, because I would do it anyway. I’d probably do it even if we weren’t doing, you know, whatever this is we’re doing. Because we’re on a team, like you keep saying.”  
“Stuff is happening out there and I’m not doing anything.”  
“Steve, stop.”  
“I’m sorry!” Steve snaps. 

It’s loud. It’s loud enough that everything is still for a second. But Tony doesn’t react. He doesn’t react.

“For what?” he asks, calmly, quietly.  
“I don’t know, I just… your heart, I just… I shouldn’t have let myself get hurt.”  
“Steve…”  
“I just… God, I’m sorry.”  
“You’ve got to stop,” Tony says. “You’ve got to stop apologizing. This is panic, Stevie. This is not a rational argument. You know that.”  
“I know, I just…”  
“And I’ll get emotional,” Tony says. “I don’t like getting emotional, you know that too. Suck it up, Rogers.”  
“I just made stuff so hard for my mom,” Steve says. “Being sick all the time. I made it hard for her.”

Tony wishes he could think of a better response to that, because he knows that his voice, hypocritically, probably sounds far too sorry for Steve to accept. But that’s how he feels. Brutally, exhaustedly sorry. “Oh, honey,” he says, softly. “Oh honey, that’s not even ballpark true.”  
   
He’s right about his tone. Steve doesn't like it. His chin goes up, and his face gets hard, and Tony feels approximately a million years old again. He thinks about covering his face with his hand, just sort of giving up like that, but he doesn't do it, he just rubs his beard again.  
“Well?” Steve says, insistently, briskly, bordering on the harsh again.

“Well, what?" Tony says. "Well, you’re crazy? Because yeah, you are, and we’ve spent some serious time tonight establishing that. You are batshit fucking insane, Steven, and you have zero perspective on this situation.”  
“Tony!” Steve says.  
“Steve!” Tony says. “You’re fucking crazy. Sane guys don’t have fucking panic attacks, Steve, get used to it.”

Steve stares at him. Hard. He’s furious and his mouth is open, but he can’t seem to find anything to say. 

“That’s why you didn’t want me to call Sam, isn’t it?” Tony says. “You’re trying to… you think he’s going to worry about you.”  
Steve says nothing.  
“Stevie, he’s going to worry about you anyway.”  
“He’s just… he’s done this before.”

“Steve,” Tony says. “I mean, look, okay. You want to know what I did in the restroom? I thought about Howard. I thought about Howard and MIT, because I was kind of losing it because I’m kind of fucking crazy too. Crazy people’s thoughts take them to crazy places. Which is why I guess you'd say something fucking stupid like that: because you’re crazy.”

Steve keeps staring at him, but Tony’s not done: “and if you need to have another meltdown, I guess you can go ahead and have one, but you should know you’re wrong. And crazy.”

"Tony, this is serious," Steve says, sharply, but Tony doesn’t let him elaborate on that.  
“Yes, it’s very serious. You know how your mom thought about you. You even know what your dad thought of you. You know what Sam thinks of you, and you know what I think of you, because I already said it. Don’t make me say it again. You might be in hospital but that doesn’t mean you get to exploit my limited capacity for romance, Steven. Stop it.”

Steve looks stunned. He almost, sort of, nearly laughs, but then he looks down, angrily, sort of confused. “You really thought about Howard?”  
“Pretty dumb right?”    
“It’s not dumb,” Steve says. “I thought about him too. I wonder if they anticipated this as a design flaw, this thing with the way I heal. There’s a lot they didn’t tell me, but there’s also a lot they didn’t know. In a lot of ways, I’m still basically a walking experiment.”

“Sometimes,” Tony says, “I figure he thought the same about me.”  
“That’s horrible.”  
“It’s okay.”  
“I’d really like to hug you. I’d like to do that. I really would, I just can’t. I can’t get up and do that. I can’t even do that.”  
“Because it hurts.”  
“Yeah,” Steve says. He looks, Tony thinks, like he is once again pretty determined not to cry.  
   
Tony thinks that maybe this is something else that Steve is right about – that maybe they learned good things from bad stuff. Because he doesn’t want Steve to cry anymore than Steve wants to cry, and that has not one damn fucking thing to do with Howard.    
“This is really sucking right now, Tony,” Steve says. “I mean it’s really sucking. And you know how I know it’s sucking? Because of you. Because you’re sitting here being nice to me and talking to me about my damn childhood and this just really… hurts a lot, Tony. I hate this, I just really hate this.”

Tony sits right up and puts his arm around him. It’s the only thing he can think to do. He does it in one fast motion, but he’s on top of it, he knows the score, and the actual contact he does as gently as he can. Steve winces sharply when he does anyway, and Tony is about to let go – god, how did he not know how bad this was? - but then Steve buries his face against his neck. 

It’s so strange, this sensation. Burrowing. Again. Just like when they were doing it. That was weird last time it came up, and it’s a weird thought now, but Tony is too tired to run interference on it, and it’s true anyway. Hours ago now, Steve was doing this because they were fucking. Now he’s doing it because he hurts and he’s afraid. But it’s still Steve’s breath against his throat. It’s still Steve trusting him in that heartbreaking, nuclear way that is equal parts tender and terrifying. I just have a lot of weird feelings about this, Rogers, Tony wants to say. 

He doesn’t say it though. “Remember when I bought you a lobster?” he says, instead. “Remember that? You didn’t like it.”

Steve’s voice is muffled. “I liked it okay,” he says, sulkily. “I just didn’t see the big deal about it. It’s just an expensive, seafood flavored cockroach.”  
“I didn’t see the big deal about you at first either,” Tony tells him. “I do now.”

“Oh yeah, really?” Steve says. Even under all that wincing and angst, Tony can hear him fishing a little. That’s still a fun flirt somewhere, on some planet where everything’s normal. So Steve can’t hug right now, and it’s not sexy in any way, shape or form, but he’s still sassing, it’s still them. It’s still Steve and Tony alone in a room. 

“Oh yeah really,” Tony says. “We’re okay. Don’t fucking push it, Rogers.”  
“Call me Steven again.”  
“Oh, you like that, huh? I’m never sure.”

Steve has pulled back a little to search for words, but Tony never gets to hear what those words would have been, because Bruce comes back in, pushing a tray with things on it, and Steve is done making any kind of scene. Bruce smiles at them, but it’s in a sort-of way too, and “you know, I feel bad you didn’t eat anything,” Steve says, and all of that other stuff is over. 

Tony doesn’t know how Steve does it. Sure, he prides himself on that whole patented Stark Tech Not Crying algorithm, but he sucks hard at it compared to Steve. Steve doesn’t just Not Cry, he Awesomely Not Feelings, he conducts himself like they’re not even happening. It would be impressive as fuck if it wasn’t, given everything he’s learned about Steve over the course of their relationship, and a little more this evening, actually totally awful. 

“I had duck in DC,” Bruce says. He’s washing his hands again. He’s putting on gloves. There’s no nurse with him, and Tony hopes that means what he thinks it means: that Bruce wasn’t kidding around about this being a simple procedure, that it will be over quickly, that it won’t have to hurt too much. “I had duck and little turnips. I read an entire chapter of the book I’m reading. It was genuinely pleasant. You don’t need to worry about me.”

That seems unusually fancy for Bruce, Tony thinks. And Steve thinks so too, he guesses, because he asks questions: “Were the turnips naturally little, or were they cut that way?”  
“I think they were naturally little,” Bruce says. “They were about the size of this.” He turns, makes an ‘OK’ gesture with his gloved hand. 

All of this doesn’t seem that dissimilar to microchips so far, Tony thinks. Except that maybe sterility is less important, because Bruce isn’t wearing a mask while he’s slipping all of these tools into a basin of pink liquid, one by one. That seems wrong, that a body would be less delicate than a silicone mechanism, that it would require less care. Bruce should be wearing a mask. There’s one around his neck, hanging there, but he doesn’t pull it up.  
   
“Where’d you go?” Steve says. “What’s the book?”  
“It had a French name. Nick gave me the recommendation. And Hunter S. Thompson’s Fear and Loathing on the Campaign Trail ‘72. It seemed appropriate.”  
“I don’t know it.”

Bruce makes another of his sheepish faces. “It’s about the Nixon/McGovern Presidential election in 1972, his columns for Rolling Stone. Hunter Thompson’s what’s called a gonzo journalist, which means it’s about one half politics and one half his impressions of the time, generally. So it’s really a nostalgia thing for old guys like me.”  
“I read a little about Nixon,” Steve says.  
   
Bruce has turned back to what he’s doing. “Uh huh?”  
“I don’t… it’s hard for me to get my head around how that could have happened. A lot’s changed.”

“In some ways,” Bruce says. “But they’ve also stayed the same. Arguably, occupying Afghanistan is a lot like the Mexican-American war, don’t you think?”  
“Mmm,” Steve says, frowning. 

“And then,” Bruce says, “occupying Cambodia, that’s where I’m up to now. I’ve read it before.”  
“I guess I…”  
“Abu Ghraib,” Bruce says, “My Lai, Cerro Gordo. Sometimes when I think about these things, I see a line.”  
“I guess maybe I should…”  
“I’m sorry, I don’t mean to be talking about massacres when I’m about to do surgery on you,” Bruce says, and Tony thinks, um, yes. 

Steve, evidently, doesn’t. “I think…” he says, “there’s probably not a lot of separating Afghanistan out from the Cold War, that’s my impression. I mean I think there’s a pretty clear line there too. Maybe not what you’re saying, but just… actions leading into each other.”  
“That’s a widely held impression, yeah. It’s mine too.”

“And there’s probably not a lot of separating the Cold War out from, well, you know,” Steve goes on. “You know, I mean, during… it’s World War Two now. If you think about allegiances, and how they changed.” 

“Sure,” Bruce says. “History repeats, in all kinds of ways. Things aren’t always as compartmentalized as people want to say they are. Hell, 2008 is a lot like 1929 in a lot of ways, just practically speaking, even if the precise economics are different and Obama didn’t exactly respond like FDR.”  
   
Tony rolls his eyes at Bruce’s back. “Quit trying to form a Red Bloc in here, Banner.”    
“I didn’t vote for FDR,” Steve says. “I was too young. I think I’d probably have voted for him, I was planning to, but I didn’t get the chance.”  
“Because the age used to be 21!” Bruce says. “I never thought about that. It never occurred to me that 2016 would be your first vote. It’s amazing that they let you go to war as Captain America, but not vote.”

That’s a little too smugly red, even for Steve. “I was old enough to vote when I went. It was just timing. You know, of elections.”  
“Well, sure, but…”  
   
“But,” Steve says, “in 1939, there was… okay, a ship, the MS St. Louis, the passengers were Jewish refugees from Europe. FDR wouldn’t let them come into the country. I remember reading about it at the time, I thought he was wrong. I thought he made the wrong decision. Turns out the ship had to go back to Europe. Most of those refugees died in concentration camps.”  
   
Bruce doesn’t say anything to that. He pushes his glasses up with a tongue depressor, and turns around from the tray. Leans against it. Folds his arms and looks at Steve. Waits.  
   
Tony doesn’t like it. It’s not so much a politics thing as it is a Steve Talking About The War From Which He Is Inclined to have Flashbacks thing, but it’s politics too. His feelings are one part low-level irritation at college liberals talking about college things when he is tired and old and Steve is in hospital, and one part something else that he can’t identify, but which is definitely making him uneasy. Either one of those things, or their combination, make him tense.  
   
Steve goes on: “and he wouldn’t pass the anti-lynching law. He thought it would hurt his chances of getting re-elected. I didn’t even read about that, I learned it from the girl I go to lunch with at school sometimes, she knows a lot about that kind of history.”  
“That’s a useful friend to have,” Bruce says.  
Steve nods. “I think so.” Then he’s silent for a bit, thinking. Bruce keeps waiting for him. 

“I want you to be wrong,” Steve says, finally.

“What do you mean?” Bruce asks him.  
“I want it to be that America has changed,” Steve says. “I’ve wanted that for a long time. But it’s not.”

“That’s…” Bruce says. “That’s a hard realization in your particular context.”  
“It could be a lot harder,” Steve says. “It would be a lot harder if I’d been one of those refugees. Or in Cambodia, or if somebody had wanted to lynch me. It would be harder if I was in Afghanistan right now. And Nixon… when he said, “I don’t think it’s wrong if the president does it,” that’s… well, you know, it doesn’t take being Captain of anything to call that wrong.”  
“Sure,” Bruce says.

“If the president has no accountability, that’s not right,” Steve says. “That’s basic stuff. That’s day one American civics. It’s not what we agreed to, an unaccountable government. People… they write about it like Nixon was some especially rare case, some blip in the history, and I’d like to believe that, I really would. But FDR didn’t let the St. Louis in. And Obama didn’t close Guantanamo. And he said he would. That’s not right.”  
   
Tony is about to ask how Steve even knows about Guantanamo Bay, but then he realizes that his impulse to do so is utterly stupid. He’s seen Steve read the paper every single morning (the actual paper paper too, without fail. Tony has commented upon this several times, but has achieved zero reaction. Steve is committed to the paper paper, and he is unconcerned about it. Online journalism need not apply). He’s also seen Steve write college papers, and ask questions, and diligently struggle to piece this brave new world together. He has literally just heard him perform a competent political analysis of reporting on the Nixon administration. It’s stupid to think he would not know about Guantanamo Bay.  
   
It’s also stupid to think he doesn’t know exactly how much money Stark Industries made itself out of the War on Terror in general. Damn, there it is. That’s the unease he’s feeling. That knowledge, and the fact that, he figures, more questions about that are probably coming. Sure, Steve got angry before, but not for long, and not really for real, but he will one day soon, and Tony has no idea how he’ll answer it. Right now, Steve says “I think maybe it hasn’t been right for a long time,” and Bruce nods and Tony kind of a little bit hates him for it.      
   
And Steve is still talking: “it’s not a hard realization. It’s a necessary one. If I’m going to do my job, I’ve got to think about that. I can’t pretend I don’t need to. I don’t have carte blanche, any more than the president does, or should.”

“What are you saying?” Bruce asks.  
“I’m saying I’m not clear cut about this,” Steve says, firmly. “Tony is, but I’m not. Way I see it, there’s something wrong when American citizens feel like they have to shoot a public figure to get their point across. I think there’s something wrong with that situation. And you think so too, don’t you?”

“We don’t know this guy was American,” Tony says, before Bruce can answer. “We also don’t know motive. You’ve got to… you know, you’ve got to allow for crackpots here.”

Steve shakes his head. “We’d have somebody like that by now. Besides, maybe it doesn’t matter anyway. It’s political. Shooting Captain America tells you that somebody, for whatever reason, is pissed off about America. All I’m saying, maybe it’s not as easy as saying they shouldn’t be.”  
   
Bruce says nothing, and Tony resents him for that too. He’s just turned around again, calmly sterilizing things and unpacking gauze and sutures, not even copping to what he started.

“I just…” Tony says. “Look, I’ll be straight with you, okay? I’m pretty much not interested in speculating about the motives of a guy who shot you. I’m pretty much only interested in finding him, and then killing him. Maybe painfully, though sometimes when I get real mad, I don’t tend to do a lot of forward planning.”  
“Pretty short-sighted, Tony.”  
“Wow, hey, turns out I don’t care!”  
“Hey,” Steve says. “I’m okay.”  
“You’re not okay Steve! You had heart surgery!” Tony says. “That’s not fucking okay on any level!”  
   
It’s not until he notices that Bruce and Steve are both staring at him that he realizes he’s shouted it. A lot louder than he’d meant to, too.  
“It’s okay,” Steve says. He puts out his hand again. “Hey. C’mon. C’mere. It’s okay.”  
   
Tony doesn’t take Steve’s hand. “You’re trying to make an excuse for this… Steve… you’re just using this as an excuse to… fucking… ”  
“Hey, it’s okay, Tony,” Steve says. “It’s okay.”  
“It’s not fucking okay!”  
“Do the wine match for it. For the duck and turnips.”  
   
“Steve!” Tony says. He is right on the verge of snapping at that. Not just snapping in tone, but actually snapping, making some fundamental break with reality or decency. Letting Steve have it, with every single nuance of complicated aggression that he feels. I’m not some pissed off kid you can placate with a fucking wine match, Steve, he’d say, he is about to say, and if you want to fucking go about it, we’ll go, but then he sees that Steve isn’t looking at him anymore, he’s watching Bruce assembling equipment, in fact. And he’s terrified. 

And of course he’s fucking terrified. Because Bruce is about to cut his chest open without anesthetic and he can’t even have any painkillers. Yeah. Yeah, that’s happening while you’re getting pissed off about fucking politics and your own damn feelings, Stark. Good move. 

So he does it. “You want a red burgundy with that,” Tony says. He barely manages to get it out. He has to pinch the bridge of his nose, because it pains him to say it right now, when he wants to yell and hit something, but he says it, because he is a good guy at the end of it all, or so he tells himself, and he loves Steve probably, though honestly that’s kind of hard to tell in this moment. 

But it’s at least enough to tell him about wine. As distraction from the fact that he is about to have surgery. Through gritted teeth, sure, but still. It’s coming. He’s a good guy. “Duck is fatty,” Tony says. “It’s a fatty meat. So you have something that’s thin to drink, but with a good flavor.”

The relief on Steve’s face is palpable. Okay, Tony thinks. Right input. Steve’s dropped his hand, but Tony moves over and picks it up. “Sorry,” he says. “Hey. Sorry.”  
“So what?” Steve says. “Can you name names?”  
“Uh huh. I had a Damoy Chambertin that was pretty good once. It’s a pinot noir grape, it’s the right kind of acidity.”  
“So how much does that cost?”  
   
Tony recognizes this part of it too. He recognizes the pattern that Steve is setting them up for, that little smirk on Steve’s face that goes with it, this sassy little thing that Steve does. Tony would smile, usually. “I don’t know, I don’t buy it myself. Three hundred bucks?”  
“For wine?”  
“It’s really good wine.”  
   
“Nothing should cost that much,” Steve says. “Not something you drink, especially. What was that you had with the lobster that time? Did it cost that much?”  
“The Pouilly Fuissé? That was a thirty five dollar wine, it’s not pricey, it’s just good.”  
“Thirty five dollars is pricey. But well… see, anyway? I mean, that was good, and it didn’t cost three hundred bucks.”  
“It’s cheap because my dad drank it in the seventies. It’s not in fashion anymore. They probably keep it in stock there solely because I drink it.”  
“Wine has fashions now?”  
   
“Wine’s always had fashions,” Tony says. “You’re just woefully uneducated.  
“Yeah well, maybe I’ll let you teach me,” Steve says, with what is evidently as much sassiness as he can muster under the circumstances. 

Tony’s hand almost trembles in Steve's hair, but it doesn’t. He controls the motion, sweeps it back, stokes Steve like a cat. Neither of them acknowledges that that’s happening, that Tony is petting Steve like this, but Tony is glad he’s doing it anyway. Steve is being sassy and Tony is being appropriately pretentious, and they’re both doing that while Bruce has come over, mask up, with a tray and Steve’s chart, and started peeling the dressing back.

“Okay?” he asks Steve.  
“Okay,” Steve says.  
“Okay," Bruce says. "Here goes.”

Tony can’t not watch the scalpel as Bruce slides it between his spread fingers and into the incision scar, but Steve doesn’t react to it, he doesn’t even wince. He sucks in one long breath and lets it out, and then he stills completely. Nothing when Bruce continues slicing either. Bruce opens the wound at its full length, then he picks up something that looks to Tony like a long pair of very thin tweezers and starts extracting sutures, and Steve is just silent. The sutures are clear, like fishing nylon, and bloody. They go into the metal dish one by one. Then Bruce counts them, sponges the blood from around the incision. Steve makes absolutely no movement and barely any noise. 

Tony wonders if he’s dissociated again. Because he’s calm as shit now. He’s as calm as if he was working on an engine, even though skin is pulling back and Steve is bleeding from it and Tony can see ribcage. Even though Steve has gritted his teeth and is looking off like this isn’t even happening, and Tony isn’t actually doing anything himself except resting his hand at the back of Steve’s neck. Even with all of that, there’s something satisfying about this. Something interesting. 

Mechanics, he realizes. Because a human body is a machine, it’s not just metaphor. You can tinker with hearts to make them work, and you can put bones back together with titanium. The first plate comes easily, too. Bruce slides the scalpel underneath it and doesn’t even seem to need to tug it before it comes free. He lifts it out, then lays it in the metal dish and inspects it with the scalpel blade. Tony doesn’t know what he’s looking for at first, and then he figures he’s checking that all the screws are there. There are eight of them, and the plate is x-shaped, and there are two screws in each arm. One of those is inside Tony right now, but he doesn’t feel it like Steve does, because he’s more iron machine than flesh like Steve is. 

Steve doesn’t look at the plate. He’s not looking at anything, actually. Tony squeezes his shoulder a little, but Steve doesn’t respond. He’s completely still. It’s like he’s not even in the room, like he’s not even registering what Bruce is doing. It’s borderline eerie, and it takes the edge right off of Tony’s scientific interest. He squeezes again, but there’s nothing, and so he stops.

Bruce goes in for the second plate. This one’s a little harder. He has to put the scalpel down and pick up a small screwdriver, then two of the screws come out into the dish, and then the plate comes on the scalpel, and it’s x-shaped too. Tony leans over to look at it. It looks the same as the first plate. It’s almost beautiful, metal like that, and the screws are blue even under the blood.

“How’re we doing, Steve?” Bruce asks, looking up.  
Steve says nothing.  
“Steve?”  
Still nothing.  
“Steve,” Bruce says, sharply, and Steve says,  
“Huh?”  
“How’re we doing?”

Steve seems to stir himself. He clears his throat. “We’re good. You’re right, I can tell you’re right. They shouldn’t be there. Like when a tooth is rotten. Keep going.”  
“There’s only two left,” Bruce tells him. “Do you want to take a minute?”  
“Nope.”  
“Sure about that?”  
“I’m sure. Just get it done.”  
“Okay. This next one is still in there pretty firmly, but there are only four screws.”  
“Okay,” Steve says.  
“Stevie?” Tony asks him.  
“I’m okay, Tony.”

Bruce picks up the little screwdriver again. Tony thinks Steve is probably deliberately regulating his breathing, because it seems perfectly even, like he’s rationing air.  
Because it hurts, Tony realizes. Bruce’s work is precise, and Tony knew it would be, because he’s worked with Bruce in a lab before, but Steve is in pain anyway. Because the skin on his chest is open, and Bruce is pushing it apart and unscrewing his sternum. Yeah.

Tony is no longer thinking like a scientist. He feels tense now, sick. The first screw comes out, into the dish. Then the second. It takes forever, this nauseous twisting, and then this long slide of some metal thing out of Steve’s human bones. Or actually, Tony doesn’t know how long it takes, because he hasn’t got a good sense of time right now, but it seems like forever because Steve’s nostrils are flared and his body is rigid, and he breathes in when Bruce brings the screwdriver up again, out when it starts turning, and then in again, out, and Tony’s watching that right now, he’s watching Steve. And then the third screw is out too, and “Stevie?” Tony says, but Steve either doesn’t hear him, or he elects not to answer. 

Bruce lifts the screwdriver again. The fourth screw seems to come instantly, and he moves his other hand quickly, and Tony guesses the plate has dropped off. He’s right – Bruce pulls it out with his fingers and holds it up to the light for a second, and Tony sees it there, smaller than the x-shaped plates, a perfect little square.  
“Okay Steve,” Bruce says. “We’re almost there. This last one’s in two pieces, and one is loose already, but they’re connected, and the other has two screws.”

Steve doesn’t say anything, but Bruce lets it go this time. “Tony?” Bruce says, and Tony has to stir himself now. Steve’s expression is beyond unsettling, and not even because he looks horrified or miserable. He just looks flat. Like he’s dead with his eyes open. 

“Yeah?” Tony says.  
“Weird favor, but can you push my glasses up for me? I can’t touch them with the gloves.”

Tony does it. He registers that it is in fact a weird favor, that it’s weirdly intimate, leaning over to slip Bruce’s glasses up on his nose, but he only registers that barely. The stillness is a little too tense to get queer about things, and his head is too full of static anyway. 

When he steps back, Bruce brings the screwdriver up to Steve’s chest again and pulls the incision open further. Tony expects Steve to wince at that, but he doesn’t. Nothing happens at all, just what seems like a small turn from Bruce’s hand, and a small lift, and then the scalpel again and then the final piece comes and then Bruce is swabbing, and examining, and then seemingly without any pause he starts suturing. He doesn’t use a needle like Tony assumed he would. It’s a pair of small, bent scissors and the long tweezers again. 

Wait, no, they’re not scissors, they just look like scissors. They’re a needle-holder or something, because there’s a needle in there. Bruce is better at this than he implied he was he was. Tony can’t even see the stiches. Precision and decency, those are two things that Bruce is good at. Tony’s never done this kind of thing, and he wonders if he even could. He wonders if even microchips are this precise. 

They certainly don’t matter as much, he thinks, because being a doctor matters a lot more than being a tech guy. He could have gone to medical school. He could have done something with his life instead of what he has done which is somewhere at the intersection of everything, and nothing. And Steve’s face. It’s just several levels of not okay right now. 

And then Bruce is taping gauze down over Steve’s body, and then he says, “okay, Steve, we’re done.” 

Steve doesn’t answer.  
“Steve?” Bruce says.

Nothing to that either. Tony pushes Steve’s hair back. “It’s all over, honey. You did great,” but Steve doesn’t even respond to that. It’s like he can’t even feel Tony touching him. He’s doing a great impression of being completely unconscious, even if his eyes are open.  
“Steve,” Bruce says, firmly. “Steve. Come on.”

Steve seems to come to, almost. He moves his head. Looks at them. “Thanks,” he says. “Thank you.”  
“How do you feel?” Bruce asks him.  
Steve closes his eyes. “I’m gonna go to sleep.” 

“Great idea,” Bruce says. “Just give me a couple of things first, okay? How do you feel?”  
“I feel like sleeping.”  
“How’s the pain?”  
“I just need to go to sleep now, okay? Thank you for doing that, I appreciate it, but now I’ve gotta go to sleep.”  
“I’d like to look you over if you don’t mind.”  
“I don’t need to be looked over. I’m okay, really. It hurts but it doesn’t hurt like it did before.”  
“How do you mean?”  
“I feel clear,” Steve says. “It was the right move.”

“I get it,” Tony says. “The machine is running. Right?”  
Steve nods. “That’s exactly it. Everything feels right.”

Bruce nods. “Good. I’m also going to need you to drink some water. I’m happy about the drip, but it would be good if you’d drink something.”  
Steve shakes his head. Opens his eyes again. He turns to Tony. “Can you lay down up here so I can go to sleep?”

Tony doesn’t question Steve’s tone, but he does look at Bruce. Bruce is taking his sweet time thinking that over. Steve looks agitated and upset, and Tony feels agitated and upset right along with him, and he’s right on the verge of saying something harsh to Bruce, but then Bruce nods.

“Maybe you could have a glass of water?” Tony says. Steve half nods and then he shakes his head again.  
“Why not?”  
“Can you just… just lie down up here for a minute, you don’t have to stay here.”

Tony does it. He slides up next to Steve on the bed and puts his arm around Steve’s pillow. And Steve goes to sleep. Just like that. It’s kind of amazing, actually. Or it would be if it wasn't also fucking horrifying. He sort of shuffles over so his head is next to the crook of Tony’s shoulder, and then he just powers down like someone pressed a button. “Hey, Stevie?” Tony says, quietly. “Honey?” But Steve is out.

Bruce has peeled off his gloves and washed up by now, and he’s sat down and is making notes on Steve’s chart. He seems focused and unfazed. Tony swallows. “Is this, like… is this okay? Just then? Him going to sleep like this? Is something wrong? Should I wake him up?”

“He’ll be fine,” Bruce says. “He’s just in shock. And a lot of pain. Two surgeries and no painkillers. He’s overloaded, Tony. He’s checking out.”  
“Shit.”

Bruce doesn’t look up from the chart, but he nods. “Yeah, shock is scary. I don’t know, it’s hard to tell, but I think it’s for the best for him to just… you know, put himself out. No painkillers, nothing. He could feel every bit of that.”  
“I know, I…”  
“And we’ll be here, we’ll be right here.”  
“Thanks,” Tony says.  
“He heels so fast, too. Did you see I had to keep cutting, just to keep the wound open?”  
“Yeah, I can’t… can you stop telling me things like that?"

"Shit, I'm sorry," Bruce says. "I'm on medical autopilot. I guess we all have our own ways of checking out. How’re you doing, Tony? You okay?”  
“Wouldn’t mind a drink,” Tony says. “Case in point.”

Bruce laughs. “Either, actually. Jesus, that was nerve-wracking. I haven’t done a lot of surgeries, and I’ve sure never done… do you think you’d call that field surgery? Steve would know. Ask him when he wakes up. And I did get you something. Or hell, maybe I got us both something.”  
“Well, could you hook a brother up? Not to be dramatic about it, but I’m kind of DTing over here and I can’t exactly move.”  
“We should probably talk about your drinking at some point.”  
“Hey, let’s not do it while my boyfriend is in the hospital, though, huh? Be a pal.”  
“And I don’t think you should say ‘hook a brother up’. Something about a white guy saying that leaves a bad taste in my mouth.”  
“Rhodey doesn’t mind.”  
“Tony,” Bruce says. “Please don’t try to win arguments about appropriation by namedropping your black friend.”

Tony shuts up. He doesn’t want to shut up, he wants to say something biting about college and the liberal agenda again but he’s too tired to argue, and besides, part of him suspects that Bruce is kind of right about this. Rhodey probably wouldn’t say anything, even if it did piss him off, because he’s a colonel and because he and Tony are men and they don’t say crap like that to each other. But Rhodey is a good guy, so maybe it is on Tony to be somewhat less of a shithead, and maybe he won’t say anything to Bruce about it.

Well. “Hurry up with that drink, Banner.” 

Bruce is shaking his head, but he’s found the plastic cups and he’s pouring bourbon into a couple of them. The cups are pretty big and Bruce puts a good-sized measure in the bottom. He pours one for himself too, then brings the cup over to Tony. Tony fumbles a little, but he does take it, and Bruce puts his hand on Tony’s shoulder.  
“Don’t,” Tony says. “Really. Pepper already hugged me, and I’ll just… look, I’ll cry okay? I admit it. I will cry like a little girl.” 

It is half sarcasm and half, Tony realizes, with no small measure of actual fear, utter seriousness. Taking the cup from Bruce’s hand like that, on top of everything else, it’s right up against the border. But Bruce smirks. “You can cry? I’ve always kind of assumed that if you tried to do that, motor oil would come out or something.”

Tony sneers, but besides that he just drinks the bourbon. Delicious, live-giving bourbon, and thank fuck for it. Bruce sits down again. “How’s that going, by the way? Your tragic madness. Any excitement.”  
“It’s actually fine,” Tony says. “I had a bad moment there, but in a weird way, it’s fine. Pepper said I was good in a crisis and maybe she’s right. I’m going to flip my shit in banality, but I can rock a crisis. I can, right? That’s a thing I do? That old “heroism”.”

Bruce laughs again. It actually sounds kind of bitter this time, but Tony doesn’t have to probe. “Well, it’s crisis time,” Bruce says. “Stuff’s happening.”  
“Yeah?”  
“Yeah. I’d like to know more. I don’t. So I know what you know, which is that one guy, and probably more guys, are not too happy about there being a shadowy government-affiliate crack-team of supersoldiers, billionaires and monsters that is pretty much beyond accountability.”  
“That’s what you heard?”  
“That’s what I infer. But I haven’t checked in with anyone, and really, nobody’s going out of their way to tell me anything. This is the sort of thing I need you for, stealing information from The Man.”

Tony laughs so hard he almost drops his bourbon. It’s tension laughter, sure, but it’s also shit-is-funny-as-hell laughter. “Did you really just say ‘The Man’? You fucking hippie. You’re a grown man with a job, Banner. You don’t get to say ‘The Man’ anymore. Jesus.”

Bruce raises one eyebrow. It’s pretty effective, this detached ennui thing that Bruce has going on sometimes. “Sometimes I forget that you’re The Man,” he says, deadpan. He swigs from his cup as if he can’t really be bothered recalling it’s there. Effective.

Effective, and definitely cute. Tony kind of wishes they’d fucked for a second, but Bruce doesn’t really do guys and actually doesn’t really seem to do fucking generally. Which makes sense, sure, from one perspective, but Tony will never not view it as a great tragedy. “We’re not government, anyway,” he says.

“Kind of a fine distinction at this point, don’t you think?” Bruce asks him.  
“I really don’t.”  
“Tony. There’s no SHIELD, but we’re using the same infrastructure. We’ve got clearance. We’ve got kickbacks.”  
“We’ve got me,” Tony says. “Me and my money. That’s the glory of private enterprise, Banner, even if you pathologically refuse to appreciate it. We get kickbacks, yeah, but we get ‘em on our terms. We’re the ones calling the shots.”

“I’m not even going to touch that,” Bruce says. He takes another slug. “I could, and you know what I’d say about it, but I’m not. I wonder how much of the black budget they used for SHIELD? I’ve been wondering about that lately.”

Tony rolls his eyes, yet again. “Okay, Che Guevara. What’s your read on all of this?”  
“My read is that it’s inevitable,” Bruce says. “Supersoldiers, billionaires and monsters beyond accountability. Come on. There’s going to be consequences. We were stupid as hell to think there wouldn’t be. It’ll get worse. We’re lucky it hasn’t already.”

Tony has to concede that point. “Yeah okay. You’re not wrong there.”  
“Could be extremists, sure. But it could simply be people who don’t like when their government acts like that.”  
“Acts like not letting them get killed by aliens?”

“I don’t know,” Bruce says, firmly. “And I think we both know it’s a lot more complicated than that. But I’m not going to make any decisions about my allegiances until I know where everything lies.”

Tony wonders if he is too tired to get as angry as he wants to, because he answers Bruce like it’s a theoretical argument. “You’re not honestly telling me you’d let this person walk away from doing this to Steve.”

Bruce sighs. “No. I just mean… Look. Steve is my friend, but the US military sure isn’t. There’s a reason I wasn’t a SHIELD employee, and there’s a reason I’m not one of yours. And I’m also not in any danger, personally.”  
“What do you mean?”  
“I’m just speaking practically,” Bruce says. He sounds almost bitter again. “Nobody can make me do anything I don’t want to do. The Other Guy has opinions about that kind of thing.”  
“Seems to me,” Tony says, “that that is kind of an advantage in this particular circumstance.”

Bruce doesn’t say anything.

“Also, have I said that I hate the communism? I hate the communism.”  
“I’m not a communist,” Bruce says. “Or… not necessarily. But sure. It’s always been a dream of mine to make it onto David Horowitz’s list of most dangerous academics, I admit it. For a non Other Guy reason.”  
“Who the fuck is David Horowitz?”  
“He’s an… ultra Republican who writes books about liberals running rampant in academia and poisoning young minds. Funny, he’d probably have no problem with my being a giant green rage monster if I was prepared to be a Republican while I did it.”  
“Yeah, funny,” Tony says. “Since, you know, you actually are running rampant in academia and poisoning young minds.” 

He’s kind of joking about it, but in a weird and slightly uncomfortable way he’s also kind of not. He’s tempted to say something else, but then Bruce smirks. “I try my very best.”  
“Yeah, well, stop doing it with Steve.” 

“Steve is an adult,” Bruce says. “He’s also Captain America, and both of us happen to believe that that’s a position of some ideological responsibility. But I don’t have any influence on him that he doesn’t himself chose to accept.” 

In Tony’s opinion, that all sounds pretty sanctimonious. “You’ll turn his head.”  
“So buy him a country.”  
“I’ve seen your twitter,” Tony reminds him. 

It’s a dead heat. Bruce takes a drink, Tony takes a drink, and they’re silent. Tony runs other hand through Steve’s hair again, sort of absently. It’s wet still, lank, but he notices that Steve doesn’t feel hot anymore. He feels like regular Steve temperature. He’s breathing evenly.  
“Hey, I think your theory worked,” he says, to Bruce. 

“How do you mean?”  
“I mean Steve doesn’t feel feverish anymore.”  
“Shit, he heals fast. Faster than me.”  
“I love how everybody heals fast except me. I’ve still got problems with this fucking shoulder. I need you to invent some kind of age reversing serum if you’re going to invent everything.”  
“Sorry, Tony. I don’t do that kind of thing anymore. I think you’re just going to have to live with being an old man.”  
“Steve,” Tony tells him, “was adamant nobody had noticed that except me.”

Bruce looks utterly exhausted, Tony registers. And of course he does, because it must be nearly dawn by now, and Bruce has travelled here from DC to perform surgery and argue with Tony about politics. But he manages to smile again anyway. “You guys,” he says. “This is what you talk about when you’re alone? How old you are and how you shouldn’t feel bad about it?”  
“Wouldn’t you? Any day now he’s going to come to his senses.”

“Steve knows what he’s doing,” Bruce says.  
“He’s a barely post-pubescent art student, and I’m the first person he’s ever dated,” Tony tells him. “He has literally no idea what he’s doing.”  
“Steve is also a war veteran.”  
“Yeah, he said that too.”  
“And someone whose orders you’ve routinely followed in combat.”  
“I don’t follow his orders.”  
“You do, Tony. You do what he says. Everybody does what Steve says, but particularly, you do what Steve says. You tell other people to do what Steve says.”  
“I absolutely do not.”

Bruce shakes his head. “Have it your way.”  
“Steve told me I was a silver fox,” Tony tells him, smugly. “Or, you know, more or less. Maybe I’ll go grey like you did. He probably won’t even mind.”  
“That’s offensively cute,” Bruce says. “Feel free to stop telling me this stuff, anytime.”  
“Hey, you think I’m punching above my weight, lookswise?” Tony asks, like it’s genuinely science-interesting. “I mean, if that’s possible.”

“That’s… you’re…” Bruce looks like he’s trying not to laugh. Tony grins at him.  
“How’re you doing, Fidel Hulkstro?”  
“I’m okay.”  
“Grading though.”  
“I fucking hate grading,” Bruce says. And he means it. He’s wincing from the bourbon a little, but more than that he’s wincing from the pile of papers which Tony assumes are still in his briefcase. “I should like it, shouldn’t I? Or at least I should value the opportunity to check in on my kids and see where they’re at with their thinking so far. But I guess I’m not that noble. I would cheerfully assign this to grad students, and I don’t even care how that sounds. The one thing stopping me is that my only grad is writing her thesis and she doesn’t need this right now.”

Tony laughs. “It’s not you, Banner, it’s grading. It’s objectively tedious. At least when you have to read a bad article it’s only one. This is sixty bad articles and - I’m guessing – sixty sets of shitty math with weird errors in it. You remember that, right? I remember it, and I didn’t even have to do it for a job.”  
“They’re okay though,” Bruce says. “They have conceptual issues, but not really math issues. I mean… the odd snowball error but. And it’s good for me to know about these issues so I can teach to them. It’s really just paying attention for the length of sixty papers, you know? And sixty freshman papers at that, forgive me for saying so.”

“Gimme some,” Tony says. “Just gimme a bunch right now. Let me grade some papers to click my head back into alignment.”  
“They’re not even really papers, they’re just homeworks. It’s basically a question sheet on Rutherford scattering.”  
“With what math?”  
“Scattering angle to particle speed. Corrections for comparable mass. Freshman stuff. They’re just learning the principles.”  
“Are there graphs?”  
“There are some graphs, yes.”  
“Oh, shit yeah.”

Bruce grins, like it’s funny, but Tony is also too tried to be embarrassed about it. Yeah, he likes graphs - so what? He might even put on his reading glasses to look at them properly, it could happen. He trusts that Bruce will be sensible enough to avoid making comment about it. 

Sure enough, Bruce doesn’t say a word about it when Tony hooks his glasses out of his pocket and puts them on in anticipation, grinning back at Bruce in a manner he very much intends as winning. Instead Bruce says, “you really want to grade papers? I sincerely feel like I should refuse under the circumstances, but at the same time, I really don’t want to do them.”  
“So you’re in luck, Banner. I’m in the mood for some freshman math. I’m not doing all of them, but I’ll do some.”

Bruce smiles again. He shuffles a bit, and then he reaches into his briefcase and hands Tony a small pile of stapled assignments. “I’d offer you a calculator too,” he says, “but I’m guessing you don’t want one.”  
“The day I use a calculator for freshman math will be the day I officially resign my membership to the International Club of Geniuses.”  
“Of which you’re the founding, and sole member, of course.”  
“I don’t even need a pen,” Tony says, smugly.

“You’ll need a pen to write on the papers,” Bruce says. He gives him a mechanical pencil. Tony takes it. “Or this. You know, in case you’re wrong.”  
“I’ve never been wrong in my life,” Tony says. 

Both of them let that hang there for a second or two. “Well,” Tony corrects himself, “not about math.”


	6. Old Fashioned

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which the title is prescient in sort of gross and/or sexy ways.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tony is a drunk misogynist, and there is a hand job.

This is when they’re first sort of dating. They actually have this pretty normal date, or normal for them by now. It’s become a usual thing for them to go out for some meal, for Tony to Show Steve The World with those kinds of caps to it, to occasionally even sing that song while Steve rolls his eyes over appetizers. 

 

“I’ve been to Europe, you know,” Steve says, like 99.9% of the time, in response. Which is stupid because not everything Tony is shoving in Steve’s antiquated face is European.

Still. When they finally go to the French seafood place in the papers, Tony orders the whole meal for them in French, but Steve seems determinedly unimpressed. Tony makes, he thinks, some of his best flirt faces while he is doing it, but Steve just watches, and the waiter goes away, and then Steve is just like, “I speak French too, Tony, you’re not impressing me.”

“ Où as-tu été toute ma vie?” Tony asks him,  _almost_  batting his eyelashes.

“Europe,” Steve says. “Don’t you listen?”

“I am impressing you, though,” Tony tells him. “I can tell I am. For one thing, you are really, really easy to impress, and for another, I am legitimately being impressive. What’s up with you?”

 

“I’m holding my own,” Steve says. He folds his hands. He’s wearing a sport coat and narrow slacks, he looks crisp, fashionable. Tony considers asking him if he had help dressing himself, but that would definitely be rude, and so he doesn’t.

 

“You start blushing like  _that_ , too,” Tony says. “It’s adorable. I’m gonna make you do that later, just, if you were wondering. Blush, I mean. Am I being clear enough? Is this entendre too double for you?”

“Entendre’s kind of a generous term for what you’re saying, old man,” Steve says.

 

“I’m not Old Man,” Tony says. “You’re Old Man. You’re older than me. Would you please just be impressed with how wealthy and Continental I’m being?” 

“Sure,” Steve says. “Sure, yeah, you can impress, you’re impressive. It’s hard to stop myself from swooning.  Tu êtes célibataire? Mais comment est-ce possible?”

“It’s a little early in the relationship for the informal ‘tu’, don’t you think?” Tony says. Quippily, but also actually not _that_ quippily, because it’s also maybe a little early in the relationship for Steve to make jokes about Tony’s other, recent relationship situation.

Steve does not pick up on that point, or else he ignores it. “Two things,” Steve says. “One is that you did it first, so. In this conversation, you went straight for the ‘tu’. I’m just reflecting that back. That’s at least 50% of learning any language: listening. Or, people who are capable of listening learn that way, anyway.”

 

“It’s polite,” Tony says. “I was being polite.”

“You’re being the opposite of polite,” Steve says. “You’re being sleazy. You’re trying to throw me off my guard by being sleazy.”

“I didn’t know you were on your guard.”

“I’m always on my guard in a place like this. Which I’m pretty sure is why you bring me to them.”

 

How serious is he about that? Tony can’t tell. “I just think you should have nice things,” he says.

“You think you should  _give_  me nice things,” Steve says. “Because you’re a control freak.”

 

“Sure, okay,” Tony says, because there is no point disputing an established fact like that.

“Because you’re bossy,” Steve says. “You always have to be the boss.”

“That’s rich coming from you, Rogers.” 

“I’m exactly who it should be coming from,” Steve says. “It’s about time somebody put you in your place.”

 

_Holy fucking shit,_ Tony thinks. He covers his reaction by sipping wine, or he thinks he does. Though maybe he doesn’t at all, because Steve is arching his eyebrows in the way that Tony now understands means fucking business. _Literal_ fucking business.

 

“Secondly,” Steve says, “just coming back to the point at hand, you’re throwing ‘relationship’ around a lot these days, you noticed that?”

“No,” Tony says.

“Every time we go out, it’s a ‘relationship’ now, you’ve just got to slip that in over the amuse-bouche. What’s going on with that, huh?”

“It’s a figure of speech,” Tony tells him, sipping more wine, if not actually gulping it now. “How do you know about an amuse-bouche?”

“One amuse-bouche experience is enough to learn what an amuse-bouche is, Tony.”

“It’s a figure of speech,” Tony says, again.

“What, mouth amuser?”

“Relationship,” Tony says. “I have a relationship with my barber.”

 “Sure,” Steve says. “Uh huh.” 

 

The Striped Bass tartare has been presented by now, and if Steve wanted to say anything else, it’s trailed off, because he’s busy examining the plate with the tines of his fork. He’s still got that smile on his face, a little leftover sass, but he’s also about half earnest confusion now, which Tony assumes is about the fish.

“Do you know about tartare?” Tony asks.

“I know about food poisoning.”

“You’re not going to get food poisoning, honey,” Tony says, and then he realizes that he’s said ‘honey’. Steve doesn’t look up at it, which is gracious of him, but his face softens a little. Tony feels… something about that.

“I guess I probably couldn’t, anyway.”

“I doubt it. But even if you could, you wouldn’t. This is good stuff, it’s basically French sashimi.”

 

“Sure,” Steve says, inspecting the next plate, which is shaved geoduck, popped up on a couple of raviolis and wearing a bouffant of black caviar. It looks alright, actually. Cut up like that. Tony’d like to show Steve a whole geoduck someday, just to see his reaction.

And there’s also tuna carpaccio with foie gras, and then there’s oysters. The course is entirely raw, that’s the point. Tony explains it. “I get the concept,” Steve says. He frowns, and he sucks on his drink, which is, if Tony recalls correctly, a 2007 Romain Papilloud Cave du Vieux Moulin Amigne de Vetroz Grand Cru.

“How’s the wine?”

“Fruity,” Steve says.

“I won’t make you eat another lobster,” Tony tells him.

Steve smiles. “Will you make me eat a filet-o-fish?”

“I don’t like seafood  _that_  much _._ ”

Tony probably will make Steve eat a filet-o-fish at some point, he thinks. He prefers the BK cheeseburger, but the King’s fish burger is not up to much. And Steve’ll like the filet-o-fish, since it was invented for the Irish. Irish Catholics specifically, but close enough.

“I’m just humoring you about this, by the way, “ Steve says. “Humoring you in basically every way it’s possible to do that. Because, comme il apparaît,  tu es  _complètement_  ridicule.”

 

Tony’s got this deadpan wine sipping thing down pat, he thinks. “Your accent is really good for someone talking complete shit,” he says. 

He expects Steve to respond to that. To give some mild and probably sexually charged admonishment, but instead Steve just says, “yeah, I’ve always been good at accents.” 

Tony raises his eyebrows. “Well, alright then.”

“Good at languages generally.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Yeah. I mean, I’m faster now, but I was always good.”

“Yeah?” Tony prods the oysters. “Sais-tu que c'est aphrodisiaque?”

“Exactly how many languages,” Steve asks him, “are you capable of being sleazy in?”

“Six,” Tony says. “And mild harassment in a seventh.”

 

Steve snorts. He pokes his fork into the tartare again. 

“Tell me what you think,” Tony says.

“I think you’re hedging, old man.”

“I’m not old man, you’re old man.”

“Tony,” Steve says. “You know how I feel. I’m not trying to push, I’m just… you know. I guess sometimes I like to know we’re not just dicking around.”

“We are di…” Tony starts to say, but then he doesn’t. He swallows. Not everything is a joke, and he gets that about Steve now, that not everything is a joke for Steve. Some things are very serious.

 

“I wasn’t finished,” Tony says. “For someone so big on listening, you don’t do a lot of it. I have a relationship with my barber, okay, and I also have a relationship with you.”

 

Steve’s expression is hard to read. He seems skeptical, but also maybe even slightly overwhelmed. It’s hard to tell.

“A Mature Adult Relationship,” Tony says.

“Tony…”

“I’m not dicking around with you, Steve. I’m old and calcified and bad at human feelings, but I’m not dicking around.”

 

Steve’s face is a little flushed in the candlelight. He’s looking down at his hands.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah,” Tony says. “But don’t get cocky.”

 

Steve puts his hand over his face, but he’s smiling, leaned forward over the table, other hand still holding the fork. “I really love you,” he says. 

“I know,” Tony says.

Steve snorts. “You’re just…”

 

“I’m just fabulous,” Tony says. 

“Let’s stick with ‘just’ at this point in time, huh?”

“Eat that fish,” Tony says. “Tell me what you think about it.”

Steve does. 

 

It’s a nice night. It’s a great night, actually, eating this fish, dining, dressed up. It’s everything it should be and more, which is why it doesn’t make sense that when they get back to the tower, ostensibly to pick something up before further amusements, Steve is totally silent, and his posture’s gone rigid in a weird way. It almost seems like he’s waiting for something big to happen, anticipating movements, like they’re at work. 

 

They’re not though. They’re coming home from a date. And Tony doesn’t know why he’s remembering that right now, in the recovery room, while Steve is asleep and he’s arguing with Bruce about grading, but he is. “You can’t just pass people for substandard work, Banner!” he’s saying, in the real world. Loudly. “That’s flagrant grade inflation!” but in his head, it’s back in time, and he’s talking to Steve. “Hey,” Tony says. “Are you okay?”

 

Steve nods. His face is a strange color. Washed out, maybe. “Fine. I’m…”

“You just seem… did I say something?”

“No. No, of course not.”

“You’re just really quiet.”

 

“I… um,” Steve says. “I think I might just call it a night, if that’s okay with you.”

 

Tony feels his heart lurch. Which isn’t fair, that’s not fair of him. Steve is allowed to say a thing, to choose a thing, to have a reaction to something, without Tony instantly slumping into paranoid irritation. Steve looks bad, unsteady on his feet and sort of haunted, and Tony feels himself trying to fake casual with it, wanting to put his arm around Steve in a chummy way.

 

That’s not what Steve wants. Tony knows this, because he tries, and Steve cringes from it. 

“Well, okay, I guess I did say something,” Tony says.

 

“Tony!” Steve says. “No! Hell, it has nothing to do with you!”

 

That’s real distress. There is something really, really wrong here.

 

“Hey, Stevie?” Tony says. It’s the first time he’s ever called him that. Softening his name is the softest thing he can do when he can’t touch him. 

 

Steve says, “mmm.” His eyes are closed. He’s leaned against the doorframe to his room.

“It’s not good? I shouldn’t touch you?”

“No,” Steve says. “Sorry.”

“It’s okay. What’s going on?”

“I just… nothing, I just…”

“Is this… are you…?” 

 

“I just need…” Steve says. “I just need everything to stop for a little while.”

 

“Sure,” Tony says. “Okay, sure. Of course. Should I… do you want me to go? I can go right now. I can get you something? Do you want something? I should go, right? Steve? I should…”

 

“Tony!” Steve says. Snaps, really. “Can you just… just please stop talking, okay.”

 

Tony walks off. It is not, he becomes quickly aware, his finest moment, and probably, in retrospect, one of his worst, which is really saying something. There are a lot of things Tony should not have built and a lot of people he should not have sold them to, but something else he should not have done is just walked off on Steve because Steve’s tone changed and it freaked him out a little. It is, since everything is French tonight, mildly fucking déclassé.

 

He should not have left, and if he was going to leave, he could, at least, have made Steve feel good about it.

 

And if he was going to leave, he definitely shouldn’t have done it wearing Steve’s coat.

 

 

 

 

 

He doesn’t even realize then that this is the start of a trend, but while he is walking off wearing Steve’s coat, he takes the elevator to the ground floor of the tower, tapping his foot the whole way down. Then he marches out the door and lets his phone guide him to the East 42 nd McDonald’s restaurant over the street, where he buys two filet-o-fish sandwiches and two cheeseburgers and a bunch of fries, and a Big Mac and a weird sirloin burger he’s never heard of and a big box of chicken things and one of those vaguely biological looking McRibs, and hell, why the fuck not? a chicken salad. And then he gets another Big Mac and some more fries, and like six different sauces including one called ‘spicy buffalo’ that sounds kind of dubious but what the fuck, right? Might as well. 

 

He thinks about it for a second when he’s said that, and concludes that maybe he has enough burgers now, but even so he adds some McFrappé concoction and a presumably ‘fruit’ smoothie to the order, and cokes, obviously, and apple pies, and then he asks for animal crackers, but the kid at the counter says they don’t make those any more.

 

Tony is really bummed out about the animal crackers. 

 

He’s also bummed out about the fact he didn’t think about how to carry all of this stuff. The bags are fine, but that’s five liquid situations he’s created for himself here. Really unnecessary, obviously, but it’s done now, and you’d really want an extra hand for this. Motorized or someone on payroll, wouldn’t matter. But Tony doesn’t have anyone here, and he’s not going to call anyone, because he’s doing this. The point is that he’s doing this. 

 

So he improvises – he bundles all of the bags against his chest and puts one in his mouth and holds the little drink trays one in each hand, and then he gaps it back to Park Avenue in a decent enough time that the food is still warm when he gets into the elevator. If he moves fast enough, everything stays upright. He doesn’t waste any time on security, either, since the building knows who he is. 

 

In the elevator, he spills what he estimates to be just under 8 fluid ounces of what he thinks is strawberry frappé, and most of that is on himself, not Steve’s coat. It is not the worst thing that has ever happened. He is sticky, yes, but he saved all the bags, and the entrance he makes, falling into Steve’s room with a camping trip’s worth of fast food is definitely going to make up for it. Steve snorts, and then laughs, and Tony knows that’s probably going to be good for getting himself lightly sponged down later and not even having to ask for or appropriate one of Steve’s downy soft baseball shirts to sleep in. 

 

“What _is_ all this?” Steve asks him, still laughing.

“I don’t know, I just thought you needed a burger.”

“This is… this is 30 burgers.”

“This is 8 burgers and some sides. It’s a normal amount of burgers, Rogers.”

“It is not a normal amount of burgers, Tony.”

“I’m going to stop making you eat at weird ritzy places,” Tony says. “It’s rude of me. We don’t have to eat that food. I don’t even like that food that much.”

 

“I like the food!” Steve says. “I like the food, I like the dating, and I like the novelty. I like when you show off, even. There’s nothing wrong with what you’re doing.”

“You like when I show off the most, but don’t change the subject.”

“It was a little overwhelming tonight, and that’s it.”

“Well, just, maybe you needed a burger.”

“You’re going to make me eat a filet-o-fish, aren’t you?”

“I’m expanding your horizons.”

 

Steve smiles. A painful little smile. It’s funny, Steve’s tall, but he looks like a small person with that sweater around him and his hair all mussed up. Tony is putting packages onto Steve’s desk and fishing into them and sort of piling burgers onto the bags like they’re trays or plates, and usually Steve would help him with something like this, but he isn’t, he’s just watching. It’s also really dim in here, Tony realizes, while he’s taking Steve’s coat off and hanging it over the chair.

“What’s that sweater for,” he asks. “Are you cold?”

“Did you get frappé on my coat?” Steve asks him.

“No, mostly on my shirt, thank you very much.”

Steve twists his mouth. “Sorry.”

 

“No, I’m sorry,” Tony says. “Stevie, I’m sorry.”

“For what?”

“For just… I don’t know. I don’t know, okay? I shouldn’t have walked off like that.”

 

Steve shakes his head. He slides off the bed and steps over, he’s unbuttoning Tony’s shirt, and pulling it back, and there’s pink stain all over Tony’s chest, on the undershirt, soaking through so that his chest is visible, at least the shape of it, and nipples and hair, and the lines of scaring. The pink had spread further than Tony remembered it doing. In this memory, now, he remembers it had spread further than he thought. It’s darker than he assumed it would be, too. There and then he thought it was the color of cotton candy, but now, in his mind, it’s closer to cherry pie. More like something else, even, not colored like a fruit at all. 

 

He doesn’t focus on that part of the memory. Steve is taking his hand, Steve is pulling him with him into his little bathroom. “You’re hopeless,” he’s saying, “you’re hopeless. This isn’t coming out, you know. It’s a gonner. Between this and all that motor oil… you must have to throw away so many clothes.”

“Nobody cares about undershirts, Steven. Literally the point of undershirts is that they’re cheap and you throw them away.”

 

“Come on,” Steve says. He shakes his head he sits Tony on the side of his bath, and he peels the undershirt off of him, over his head, and throws it into the corner, into his hamper. Then he runs a facecloth under warm water and he sponges this dessert-drink off Tony’s chest. He’s gentle with the scar tissue there. Very gentle.

“It’s okay, Steve,” Tony says, “it’s all healed. You can’t hurt me.”

 

Steve doesn’t say anything. He just runs the cloth over Tony’s chest. It drips. Softly. Relentlessly. Inevitably.

“Are you okay?” Tony asks. 

“I’m okay.”

 

Tony doesn’t know if that’s the right memory.

 

He and Bruce are still arguing when Pepper gets back. Tony knows how it looks – half empty bottle of bourbon, in a hospital, two middle-aged men going at it over top of sleeping Steve. He doesn’t care. He may be half-cut, but he’s also right. The rules of propriety are, and should be, suspended for correctness, because that is _science_ and that’s how it works.

 

Bruce does not agree. “It’s not substandard work for freshmen, Tony!” he’s yelling. “This is the first time they’ve heard of Rutherford scattering, and certainly the first time they’ve done any calculations on it. I’m not saying don’t mark down the errors, I’m just saying that the most important thing is that they understand the conceptual set-up.” 

“I was doing this when I was seven!” Tony says.

“You’re not everybody!”

 

“Hey, excuse me!” Pepper says, loudly, and they both stop. 

 

Pepper is still wearing her sweater and jeans. She has a coat over them, and a scarf and a hat, speckled with moisture. She’s holding a shopping bag. Her nose is pink. She’s glaring at them. 

“What are you doing? You’re in a hospital!”

 

Bruce looks sheepish as hell, but Tony is pretty sure that he, Tony, does not. He can smell the outside on Pepper, and it’s arresting, like it was when Bruce came in. The air is so dead in here, and he forgot that, and now he remembers. “It’s academic business, Pepper. Steve’s asleep, it’s fine.”

 

Pepper glares. “This is pretty fucking far from fine. Shut it down, both of you. Right now. You’re adults. What are you doing?”

 

“You’re not the boss of me,” Tony says. “Also, what the hell was that language? Smoking wasn’t ‘badass’ enough for you, now you have to talk like it’s Pulp Fiction all the time?”

“ _Tony_ ,” Bruce says.

“Does your wallet say ‘Bad Motherfucker’ on it? What else is different since the Great Escape? What kind of underwear are you wearing?” 

“ _Tony_ ,” Bruce says, again. 

 

Tony expects Pepper to snort or roll her eyes, but she doesn’t. She’s glaring at him. She’s thinned her lips in a manner that Tony can only really describe as “Pepperishly”, but its effect is pronounced: she’s clearly a step beyond eye-rolling. She does not find him funny or charming in the slightest. “What?” Tony demands, as defensively as he can.

 

“Sure,” Pepper says, “This is just great. I managed a crisis at _your company_ all day, because you were late for a _vital_ meeting because you were, I assume, based on the call I got from Steve, otherwise occupied having sad, middle-aged sex with an art student. Then I spent all night at a hospital, then I went back to work at _your company_ , and now I’m here again at,” she checks her watch, “6:30 in the fucking morning with a shirt for _your boyfriend_ and the best you’ve got for me is low-level misogyny and drunk belligerence. You’re an asshole.” 

 

“High-level misogyny,” Tony says. “Steve won’t even let me say ‘bitch’ anymore, your standards are way too low.”

“Enough, Tony,” Pepper says. 

“Drunk asshole,” Tony corrects. “Drunk middle-aged asshole.”

“ _Tony_!” Bruce says. 

 

“Steve’s your friend,” Tony says, to Pepper.

“Tony, stop it,” Bruce snaps. “She’s right, we’re out of line. And you’re being an asshole.” 

 

Tony sneers. “Fine. Sorry.”

 

Pepper scowls her way over to the chair next to Bruce. “Want to fill me in?”

“Listen, I’m sorry,” Bruce says. “I guess we just got carried away.”

“I don’t care, Bruce, just tell me what’s happening with Steve.”

“He’s okay,” Bruce says.

“I’m glad to hear it.”

 

“I had to do…” Bruce falters a little on this. Tony’s not sure why. Stress, maybe, or exhaustion, or bourbon. “I had to take out the sternum plates, you know, from his ribcage, they use those to…”

“I know what they are, Bruce,” Pepper says. “I remember.” 

“You… of course, okay. Well, I took those out, and it worked, he’s okay.” 

 

“Right,” Pepper says. “He’d healed over them.”

“Yes, exactly,” Bruce says, and Tony marvels, for a second, and then realizes he does this to Pepper almost as much as he does it to Steve. Like he’s the smartest person in the room, which means everyone else is completely stupid. Except they aren’t, and in fact they rarely are. There’s probably some kind of complicated college politics problem with that, and he’s annoyed he’s thinking about it. 

 

“So he’s alright?” Pepper is saying. 

“Yes. He’s just asleep.”

“I’m so glad to hear that. God, the poor guy.”

“Yeah.”

“Sorry,” Tony says, again, a little less grudgingly this time. 

 

Pepper turns to look at him. She’s taken off her hat while she’s been talking to Bruce, unwound her scarf. 

“I’m really sorry, Pepper,” Tony says. “That was… well, okay, frankly, yes, it was the behavior of a drunk, middle-aged asshole. I appreciate… everything, sorry and thank you very much, signed Antho...” 

“Okay, Tony.” 

“I mean it, Pepper.”

“Thanks.”

“I mean, I’m…”

 

He fumbles. Pepper is giving him that stern, thin-lipped expression again, and it is just so _profoundly_ familiar to him, and on two completely separate, yet equally visceral levels. One is, you know, actual familiarity, because of all the times she has made that face in their life together including this very night, but the second? The second is how much she looks like Steve right now. As if Tony is destined to fall stupidly in love with people who make that face and then permanently disappoint them into making it. “I’m… you know, I’m sorry.” 

 

Pepper sighs. “Thank you for the apology.”

“I just… “fucking”…”

“Yes, Tony. When I’m very tired and very fucking fed up with you, sometimes I swear.”

“Well, I don’t like it.”

“I don’t give a flying fuck what you like right now, so do us all a favor and shut the fuck up.”

 

Bruce laughs. He ducks his head to try to hide it, tries to fake like he’s just quietly reading Steve’s chart, but Tony sees it. Yeah, ha ha, Banner. It’s all very fucking funny. 

 

“Bruce?” Pepper says, and Bruce looks up, guiltily, like he’s in trouble. 

“Is there any more of that bourbon?”

 

Tony feels bad. Bad about being an asshole, but also, he realizes, kind of sickly bad about something else. It takes him a second to figure out what it is: Tony has actually been _trying_ to forget about Steve. Not really forget - like he even could, with Steve’s body literally pressed up against him, with this constant track running where they’re dating in the world ago – but just… forget some of this other stuff. Forget Steve’s open chest and his far away death stare. Forget the fact the way that Steve, in a manner quite distinct from those bolt-awake nightmares – they both do that, it’s a thing – jerks periodically when he’s falling asleep, he twitches. When Tony first pointed that out, Steve was apologetic, and Tony speculated about it: “I think you’re tense, all day, and you’re relaxing a little.” Steve said, “yeah,” and the _way_ he said “yeah” made Tony very, very sad. 

 

Tony sucks down a little more of his drink to get rid of that feeling. Bruce is pouring a shot out for Pepper.

“There’s news,” she says. “I spoke to Maria, and I’ve heard from Natasha. It’s like blood from a stone – you can take the girls out of the government agency, but you can’t take the government agency out of the girls – but I’ve got an update.”

“What?” Bruce says. 

 

“Between them and Sam, they’re tracing a cell. It’s networked, and there’s support.”

“I figured,” Bruce says.

“They’re going to tell you all this, I’m assuming, but…”

“But what?”

 

There’s subtext here, Tony realizes. Pepper is not looking at him, but she’s also _not_ looking at him, in a kind of pointed way. She doesn’t answer Bruce’s question, but that’s because, Tony realizes, she doesn’t need to. They all know the but. He’s the but. 

 

 

He wonders, actually, if he texted Rhodey right now, if he actually spelled it out like that “hey man can you please come here because I need my buddy” if Rhodey would, and thinks, actually, that maybe (if not definitely) the answer to that is yes. Which is a great reason not to do it right now. There’ll be a time when that matters more. There’ll be a time when that matters to more people than just Tony, that Rhodey comes right away, and that will probably be soon. 

 

And he can take it until then. Steve is asleep against him, and he puts his other arm over Tony, and it seems like an easy enough movement, which suggests – Tony hopes it suggests – that maybe he’s not in horrible pain anymore. 

 

Bruce has picked up on that subtext too. Tony sees him do it. He knows. He knows that Tony is compromised and human.

 

It’s too much. Remembering things is too much. Steve asleep on his little bed or and then he’d just bolt upright, breathing hard and Tony recognizes it because he does it, but he never knew it looked like that. Then Steve is panting into a glass of water and Tony is perched next to him with folded arms, and how had he not remembered that until now? It’s too much. _He looked like he was dead and something was wrong with his heart_.

  

“Go to sleep, Anthony Asshole,” Pepper tells him.

“Yeah, yeah,” Tony says, throwing his other arm over Steve.

 

Pretty bad. It’s pretty bad. He’s turned the bedside light on. This shirt is way too baggy on him and he always knocks something over. Strawberry frappe again. Maybe his chest is sticky and slick and not right again? Maybe it’s still open? Maybe none of the scars have healed? 

 

But that’s stupid, that’s fucking nonsense. It’s just Steve’s little room. Steve’s little room in Stark tower, and they’re only just dating and he’s gone to sleep here and he’s awake now because Steve is panicking. 

 

That’s normal. That’s normal fucking mental illness shit, it is nothing. He has seen it happen and he knows what it is, and it was going to happen in the night at some point, of course it was. Tony knows the thing, and he knows Steve has the thing, and he knows he started cooking hours ago, hours before this right now. There is even some light, there’s a little bit of light coming from the bathroom. This is normal. This is fine.

 

“I’m okay,” Steve is saying. “I’m okay. Don’t worry. I’m okay.”

“Is it always this bad?” Tony asks him.

 

Steve shakes his head. “It’s been… better when you’re here. I’m sorry, I don’t mean to…”  
“Stevie,” Tony says. It’s the third time he’s said that, said ‘Stevie’, like that’s Steve’s name. “I get it, okay? It happens to me too, okay. It happens. I get it.” 

“I’m just… I’m just… dreaming.”

“I know, okay?”

 

“Tony…” Steve says. He gasps. He’s still wearing the sweater. It seems important, Tony thinks, like Steve is deliberately wearing too many layers, like he’s insulating himself. “Tony you don’t have to read anything into this. God. I don’t want to… I’m really trying not to…”

“What?”

“To not push you.”

“What the fuck?”

 

“Tony!” Steve says. Snaps. “I’m telling you that I didn’t let you stay so I could have nightmares at you. That’s not your problem.”

“Yeah, and I’m not making it my problem. Jesus fucking Christ, Rogers, could we not have a relationship conversation at…” he looks at his watch, “four in the fucking morning?”

 

Steve purses his lips. “A relationship conversation, huh?”

“That was _astronomically_ underhanded of you, Captain fucking… something. This is some kind of Al-Qaeda method torture here. Sleep deprivation and too many burgers and then high stakes panic, then you get what you want. That is cheating, Steven. You are a cheat.”

“Did you just call me Steven?”

“Did I… yes? I guess? How are you feeling? Steven? Honey bear? Precious?”

“Okay.”

“Okay like ‘I feel okay’ or okay like ‘okay stop calling me those dumb names, Tony?’” 

“How about both?”

“Really?”

 

“Really,” Steve says. “I’m just gonna get up, okay?”

“What are you going to do?”

“I don’t know, go running?”

“Can you just… can you wait one minute? Can you maybe just tell me what’s going on?”

 

“I’m okay,” Steve says. He’s still breathing hard, and his shoulders are tense, but he keeps saying it. “I’m okay. I’m okay.”

 

Tony doesn’t know what is happening here, but he guesses he knows now why Steve said what he did. There can only be so much careful romantic fencing when real shit is going on. He reaches a hand out to Steve’s face. It’s clammy, but not hot. “Stevie,” he says, “you can talk, okay? You can talk to me. Forget about the other stuff.” 

 

“People die, Tony,” Steve says. Blurts. “All the time. I’d like to be the kind of person who can breeze on through on that but I’m not, okay? I’m just not. People die and I wish they didn’t.”

“What?”

“You think it’s not hard for me but it is, okay?” Steve says. “I’m not good at this either, Tony, I’m not, I’m… you expect me to be good at this, and I’m not!”

“Hey,” Tony says. “Hey.”

“You can go,” Steve says. “You can go if you’re going to.”

 

Tony’s heart is breaking. It has just broken in two, right along the line in his chest. He can’t think of a single useful thing to say about that, not one word. He can only run his hand up and down Steve’s arm. “Hey,” he says. “Hey.” It’s the best he’s got.

“Just go on!” Steve shouts. “Go!”

“I’m…” Tony says. “I’m not.”

“Well you should!”

 

Tony doesn’t.

 

 

They go walking instead. “Because we’re having a relationship,” Steve says, bitterly, or sassily, it’s not clear.

“Ne faites pas tant de chichis,” Tony says.

 

Steve does a double-take. “Are you trying to say ‘don’t get cocky’?”

“I’m not trying to, I just did.”

“That’s too formal, Tony. Way too formal. That’s grandma French. You’re basically saying ‘don’t make a fuss about it’ and it’s completely wrong coming out of your mouth. Cocky is slang. You need a slang word.”

 

Tony does not like being corrected, but he lets it slide in this instance, since, he is aware, in total honesty, that his French is equal parts boarding school and boarding school outing, in that the only slang he knows is not so much vernacular as it is vulgar. And also Steve is perking up, in these pools of streetlight, in these flashes of neon, in these splashes of water, now that he’s got something to chew on. That’s not bad, under these circumstances. It’s not bad at all. 

 

“Like what?” Tony says.

 

Steve sucks in his lip. He’s really thinking about it. “I don’t know. But, look, trop sûr de soi is closer to ‘over confident’. Um. Ne soyez pas trop sûr de soi? What do you think?”

“Um…” Tony says.

 

“Tu peux-être un peu trop confiance en tes capacities, mon ami?” Steve offers. “’You’re over-confident in your abilities’? I mean, that’s sarcastic enough, it would be a good villain line. It’s not really slang, but the attitude is headed in the right direction. Actually, how good is your French? I mean, you can order from a menu, but…”

“I… it’s pretty good, actually, thank you, Steven. It’s good enough for scientific journals.”

 

“Just not for actual conversation, I guess,” Steve says, and then he changes the subject before Tony can object. “For me, though, me, Steven, I think you’re talking about my charms, right? Mes charmes innombrables? You’re telling me you aren’t swayed by them, and you need to make sure I know.”

 

“Tes charmes innombrables,” Tony says. It’s about all he _can_ say. That little white smile of Steve’s. That impossible sass. They’re talking openly about Steve’s charms at the very moment that they are on best display, and it’s a little too cute for any words besides Steve’s own. He’s referring to himself as _Steven_. 

 

“Mes charmes innombrables,” Steve says. "Tes charmes ne sont pas aussi impressionnant que vous imaginez, Steven.”

 

Only they _are_ impressive, Tony wants to say. Literally everything about you is impressive. He says, however, nothing of the sort. He clears his throat.

“God, I need coffee.”

 

Steve grins. “I told you, I’m good at languages.”

  
“C’mere,” Tony tells him, and then he hugs him, and Steve hugs back. And then they’re kissing under a streetlight shining out over the East River like it’s a scene from a movie Tony’s known forever but can never exactly recall.

 

But the stickiness is not imaginary. That space on his chest where the frappe was, where Steve is sponging over his scars, that’s not gone. Because it can never be gone. It’s spreading again, cherry pits that won’t stop bleeding out, staining everything.

 

 

 

 

When he wakes up, Bruce and Pepper are drinking takeaway coffees and snacking out of a bag. For a moment he’s disoriented, and then he remembers where he is – in the hospital, with Steve. Steve who is, Tony registers, not there. Not on the bed. He’s alone on the bed and Steve is gone. 

 

He’s up like a shot. “What the fuck is happening,” he says. “Where’s Steve? What’s happening?”

 

Bruce is eating a fast food breakfast sandwich. He swallows quickly. But besides that, it’s normal. It’s too fucking normal. Eating, swallowing, and where the hell is Steve? “He’s fine, Tony, he’s having a shower,” Bruce says. It’s like they’re underwater. 

“He’s…” 

“He’s fine, Tony.”

 

 

“Tony?” Bruce says.

“I’m okay.”

“You want one of these?”

“No, I’m… shit, jesus, fucking christ.” 

“Tony?”

“I’m okay,” Tony says, but he’s not, he’s half-awake and drowning already. Steve is hot from sleep and his hair is toussled and his breathing gets slower, but he’s not here, he’s not here. That bolt-awake thing, that’s not happening right now. They’re in a hospital and Bruce did a surgery on Steve’s chest and Steve’s fine Steve’s having a shower, and “fuck. Fuck," he says and he rolls over onto his feet and he shoves himself into the bathroom door. 

 

Steve is just standing there, at the sink wide-eyed, toothbrush in his mouth, with wet hair, and fresh, crisp college shirt tucked into his jeans. He tenses up. Spits into the sink. “What’s up?” he says. Firmly. 

 

And then Tony realizes that of course bursting in like that, Steve is going to assume there’s an emergency. There’s not though. Or not yet. Dial it back, Stark, he thinks. He closes the door behind him. “Nothing,” he says. “Just… checking.”

“On me? I’m okay. What’s wrong?”

“Yeah, they did, I don’t… nothing. There’s… nothing. Sorry. I kind of… just woke up, haven’t set my levels yet.”

 

Steve seems to take stock of that. He sucks in a little breath, nods. “You okay?”

“Yeah,” Tony says, and wonders why Steve would even ask that, considering, unless he looks like he’s not, which is wrong, because he’s fine. “ _You_ okay?”

“Yeah, I’m good,” Steve says. “Feeling better, feeling good. Had a shower, had… what’s going on, Tony?”

“Nothing. There’s… Nothing. Don’t worry. Nothing. Just… woke up, I said… nothing.”

“Huh?”

 

“Nothing,” Tony says. Steve should have been able to hear that. Tony said “nothing” and Steve should have heard it. Steve’s jeans have blood splatter on them and Tony wishes they didn’t. “Nothing. Hung over I guess. Nothing.”

“Tony?” Steve says. “What’s happening?”

“Nothing,” Tony says. “Th… nothing. Nothing. Steve. Nothing.”

“Tony?”  


It is a tic, he realizes. He’s stuck on a word. He’s fucking stuck on a fucking word. He’s doing that fucking thing where it… sticks and he… would prefer not to say anything else, actually, if that’s happening. He’s just gonna turn to go, gonna pace a little, just up and down, before he does that, so he doesn’t look crazy when he walks out. He taps his fingers on his pants, paces some more. Steve is saying “Tony?” again, which he shouldn’t do, why is he doing that? 

“Hey,” Steve says, “hey, woah, it’s okay.” He looks concerned. He looks worried about things. He doesn’t need to be worried about things. There’s nothing to worry about.

“Hey,” Steve is saying. 

“Nothing,” he says, again. Mumbles it, really. 

 

Steve’s stepping forward. He’s got this _look_ on his face, and Tony pulls back from it, almost instinctively. “Hey, Tony, hey, c’mere.”

“Nothing’s wrong!” Tony says. “Don’t need to…”  
“Yeah, okay,” Steve says. 

  
“Nope,” Tony says. He drops his shoulder away from Steve’s outstretched arm, and Steve misses him. “Nope, don’t.”

“Okay.” Steve hasn’t stepped forward again. He has his arms out, his palms forward like he’s surrendering.

“Just…” He’s not even here, anyway. It makes no difference what Steve does. Steve can do what he likes, Tony thinks, Steve is a goddamned superman and he can do whatever the fuck he wants, and he will anyway. Is he stepping forward? Tony drops his shoulder again, turns, but he’s too slow this time, and Steve catches him, Steve is hugging him and saying “hey,” again, and “hey, hey. Tony, it’s okay, I’m okay.” 

 

Tony knows that. He stands still, dead still. Steve is running his hand over Tony’s back now, slowly, slipping his jacket up and down so that the fabric is rubbing against the lining, and that’s _irritating_ , it’s very irritating. Tony can hear it and he doesn’t like that noise. But Steve keeps saying “hey,” he keeps saying it, and Tony can feel that all the way through to his skin.  
  
“I’m so sorry to scare you,” Steve is saying. “I’m really sorry. I didn’t think. I thought you were sleeping.”

“I was sleeping. You didn’t scare me. Nothing’s fucking wrong, Steve. Nothing’s… fucking… leave me alone.”

“Tony,” Steve says, again, in a strange voice, sounds like it’s shaking a little. “Hey. Hey.” 

 

Again. He keeps saying that, he keeps saying hey in that shivering voice, and Tony keeps thinking nothing in response to it. He can’t move to back that up, though, he can’t do anything about it. Steve hugs him, and it goes on a lot longer than it needs to, this hugging and these thoughts, and he wants to tense up and then drop to the ground and out of here, but he’s frozen, he’s already at maximum tenseness. 

 

Just get it together, Stark, he’s telling himself, but he isn’t getting together, he just keeps saying that fucking word and getting mad about it.

“Hey, sorry,” Steve says, mixing it up a little. 

Good. That’s a spanner. One more word. “ _What fucking for, Steve_?”

“Hey,” Steve says. 

“Fuck you!” Tony says. “Nothing’s… nothing. God _dammit_!”

 

“Tony,” Steve says. “It’s okay. It is, okay? I’m fine, I’m here, but that was... I mean, jeez, that was some night, right? C’mon, what are you going to do, not react to it?”

“Yeah, that’s what I’m going to do,” he says. “I’m going to not react, look at me not reacting. Let me the fuck go.”

 

Steve doesn’t let him the fuck go. “Sorry, okay?” he says. “Sorry, jeez.” 

“Nothing’s fucking wrong me, Steve, just fuck off!”

Pressed against Steve’s chest, he can’t even feel the dressing. Steve must have taken it off. Just how fast does he heal, anyway? Maybe nothing’s wrong, maybe he imagined all of it, and maybe _everything’s_ wrong, and his brain is just white noise now and he’s done, but he doesn’t cry about it. Steve! Steve’s fucking drawn face and _blood on his jeans_. “Nothing’s fucking wrong!”

“Yeah, obviously.”

“Yeah, okay Rogers,” Tony says. “You’re fucking hilarious.”

“Just quiet down, Tony,” Steve tells him again. Firmly. 

 

There’s that hysterical snort-laugh again. “Nice,” Tony says. “That’s real nice. Ever the fucking gentleman.”

 

“Hey,” Steve says. Tony suddenly realizes how angry he’s sounding, and he tries to get on top of it but he can’t. “Just fuck off!” he snarls, and he’s this close to pushing Steve away from him again, with full force, he feels his body _expressly_ tensing to do that, but then Steve’s hands are around Tony’s waist and then the next thing he does is matter-of-factly heft him up onto the counter, next to the sink and sit him down there, square on his ass. Tony is kind of shocked by it, and almost actually kind of fucking affronted, but he’s also a ball of static and disconnect, even under all of this quipping, and for a second he feels like he’s slipping between this moment and when Steve sat him up on his desk at school. 

 

We going to fuck, Rogers? he thinks. That what’s happening? Obviously not, but he still thinks it. He still makes a face, a glare, because this is something, it’s definitely something and if they’re not going to fuck they’re going to fight. Like really fight. Tony is getting out of here alive or he is getting killed, but either way they’re going to fight.

 

“Just sit there,” Steve says, straight-up staring him down, hands splayed on the counter either side of Tony’s hips. “Just sit there for one goddamned second.”

“Steve!”

“Tony,” Steve says. “Please just relax a little, okay? Hell. Your heart is racing.” 

“Don’t tell me to fucking relax, Rogers.”

“I’m going to tell you to relax,” Steve says. “You’re really tense. Do you know how tense you are?”

 

“I’m okay!” Tony says, “I’m okay. I’m okay, you’re okay, it’s a fucking seventies self-help manual in here. We’ve got shit to do, Cap, let’s go.” 

“Just relax for a minute, huh?”

“I slept, Steve. I slept for like three hours. I’m good, I’m fine.”

“Shut up, Tony,” Steve says. He sounds awful. He sounds _scared_. “Just shut the fuck up for once in your fucking life, huh? You’ll give yourself a heart attack.”

 

Tony splutters. “That’s a pretty shitty thing to say, Steve, don’t you think? I mean, fuck you, actually, don’t fucking make fun of that.”

 

It has zero effect. “Sometimes I wish I had other names to call you,” Steve says. “I feel like I want to say something… softer, sometimes. I don’t know. Just sometimes. You’re just so…” 

Tony swings his legs, scowling. His feet kick into Steve’s shins. Not hard or anything, but they do, and Steve frowns at him. Tony stops. “Hey, no need to get super serious about this.” 

 

Steve fixes him with a look. “Yeah, okay, Stark,” he says. “You’re cool as a cucumber.” 

“And you’re as dated as a pretty girl, daddy-o.” 

“Hey, dickhead,” Steve says. “Shut up.” 

 

Tony feels himself starting to grin. In this stellar, far-out space of nervousness and full-tilt ticking spaz (far-out? he’s spent too much time talking to Bruce tonight), Steve, with his sternly Steve-ish ways, is just starting to penetrate. 

“There you go,” Tony says. “Dickhead, that’s a name.”

 

Steve doesn’t smile, but he looks like he wants to. He shakes his head.

“And you love me because I’m a dickhead. That what you’re telling me, right? I mean, you know, I am a dickhead, I’ve accepted that, I’m just sort of wondering how much those two things are related.”

 

Steve is smiling now, is doing that smile that he does when he looks like he can’t decide whether to laugh or to groan about it. That’s familiar too. It’s his second favorite Steve face, and Tony pushes it.

“Are you making some kind of elaborate, sex-related pun? Are you telling me you love the actual head of my personal dick? You do, right? I wouldn’t be wrong in assuming that was a factor in how deeply, _clearly_ , you are in love with me, if not _the_ major factor? It’s like… a meta dickhead that you’re saying there?” 

 

Steve actually does groan-laugh a little. 

“Yes?” Tony says “No? This working for you? You like my lines?”

“Yeah, I like your lines.”

“And you’re really okay, huh?”

 

Steve still looks worried, under that little smile. “Yeah, I’m really okay. Probably not even going to have a scar, Bruce said. Score one for military science.”

 

Tony’s a little jealous. “So you just feel fine now?”

“Pretty much.”

Now Tony’s a lot jealous. “How much did you even sleep? That’s all it took?”

 

“How’s it going there?” Steve asks him, dead on, hard-faced, and Tony swallows. 

“Nothing. Just n… okay.”

“Uh huh?”

“May have flipped my shit a little,” Tony concedes.

 

Steve raises one eyebrow. “No kidding.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Tony says. He swings his legs again, but stops just short of actual kicking. “Okay. I’m done. Let’s not go on about it.” 

“Okay,” Steve says. “Maybe just let me know where things are though. How bad is it?”  
“Nothing bad.”

“Hallucination nothing, or regular nothing?”  


Tony is probably scowling. “Steve…”

“Tony.”

“Steve…”

“Tony.”

“I’m okay.”

“How’s your heart?” Steve asks him. 

 

He’s moved off Tony now, and he asks it while folding up his toothbrush, because apparently it folds, and then sliding it into the bag on the counter. There’s toothpaste and a razor and little bar of soap in there. Little container of some kind of cream or shaving lotion in there. Nice and neat in a clear, plastic bag. That’ll be Pepper, Tony assumes. She’ll have got that for him.

“You mean… n… yeah, it’s okay,” Tony says. 

 

Steve puts down the bag, and he puts one hand over where Tony’s heart would be. “Better,” he says. “Still a little fast.” 

 

Tony doesn’t know how to feel about that. It’s almost too sweet of a gesture for him to react to it with anything other than sarcasm, but a part of him can’t be bothered. That edge of panic is retreating, and he’s a little too worn out in the wake of it to really work up the linguistic chops to be anything other than silent.He makes a face, though, and Steve makes one back at him. 

“Steve…”

“Relax, tough guy,” Steve says. “That was rough in there. You get a one minute panic allowance before we go back to work.”

 

It’s the dumbest possible thing he could have said. Enough that Tony actually almost-laughs about it, and not in a crazy way either, but in a soft, kind of regular way, because it seems just plain stupid to keep hedging about it and he doesn’t even know why he was. “Yeah, I guess I got a little worried,” he says. “But it’s okay now. I just wanted to know you were okay.” 

“Fair enough. Well, I’m okay.”

“And I guess… earlier today…”

“Uh huh?”

“Well, I mean, we already talked about it.”

 

Steve has his hand on Tony’s hip now. He’s stroking there, softly, with his thumb. “Yeah, we did. But it’s okay to talk about it more.” 

“Don’t…” Tony says. “Don’t really… jeez, I don’t know. You’re a grown man. Like you keep saying, I just…”

“Have human feelings,” Steve says. “Yeah, it’s an affliction. Many of us mere mortals suffer from that disease. Sad to hear it’s becoming a danger for Iron Men. Someone should inform the CDC.”

“You’re getting sassy in your old age, Rogers,” Tony says, but he can’t tell if his tone is sarcastic or serious. 

 

It doesn’t matter anyway, because Steve leans up and kisses him, high up on the temple. Tony closes his eyes. And Steve kisses him again, and grips his thigh. That’s pretty nice, actually. Tony’s tired now. They’ve got stuff to do, but he’s tired. He could go to sleep like this, he really could. 

 

“That help?” Steve says.

“Opposite,” Tony says. “You’re gonna get my heart rate right back up there.”

“Yeah?” Steve grins. “Uh huh?”

“Uh huh.” 

“You kind of had me worried there.”

“That’s pretty hypocritical of you, don’t you think?”

“I thought you said you weren’t worried about me.”

“I lied,” Tony says. “I am a lying liar, and that that was a huge fucking lie, because I was terrified.”

 

Steve looks down. Tony can’t read his expression. It’s confusing. He seems pleased, or mad, or worried, or sorry. Or something. 

“It’s okay, Steve.”

“I know.”

“I’m glad you’re okay.”

“I’m okay.”

“Don’t feel bad, honey.”

“You kind of…” Steve says, “you smell really good.” 

 

“I smell like I haven’t had a shower,” Tony says. “Come on, Steve.”

“It’s good,” Steve says. “You smell good, you smell like you’re supposed to.”

“Unbathed?” Tony snorts. “Come on, get out of here.”

 

Steve doesn’t get out of there. He is nuzzling into Tony’s hair now, moving up on him. “You use too much product,” he says. “Cologne and that kind of crap. You don’t need to use that much. It smells better when it wears off.”

“You mean, dirty?”

“No, I mean what I said. I mean I like it when you smell like a person.”

“You’re weird, Steve. This is weird behavior. Stop smelling me.”

“Better stop smelling good, then huh?” Steve says.

 

Tony doesn’t even get time to roll his eyes at what a terrible not-even-line that is, because Steve is suddenly kissing him on the mouth. Tony is too tired to think about it much, so he just kisses back. Steve’s lips feel soft and his mouth is cold and minty, and for a second that makes Tony self-conscious again, because he probably tastes like bourbon and sour sleep, but Steve doesn’t seem to care about that, he just keeps kissing, with this sort of abrupt desperation, and then he sucks on Tony’s bottom lip, not-quite-gently, and then he pulls back embarrassed. It’s pretty hot, actually. 

 

“Sorry!” Steve says. “Sorry! Wow, jeez. You…you just… you okay?” 

“What?” Tony says, but he’s grinning a little, now. “Yeah, I am. Hey? I’m okay. Where did that come from?”

 

Steve doesn’t answer. He shifts his body some, in between Tony’s legs, and rubs up on him. He kisses Tony again, but on the cheek this time. “Sorry,” he says, and he slides his face against Tony’s neck. Then he starts kissing there. 

 

 

It’s pretty decent. Tony just lets that happen, and absently fondles Steve’s shoulders in a tired old man haze. In fact, it’s actually kind of blissfully pleasant, these soft, wet, comforting kisses on this tender part of his body while he’s sleepy and also coming down. He should shave too, he thinks. It’s probably prickly for Steve down there, down on his neck. Steve isn’t complaining though. He’s… really, wow, he is really, really not complaining, he’s just kissing and stroking and pawing at Tony’s back and sliding a hand over his stomach, back and forth, and then there is suddenly some very physical evidence to support this lack of complaint. 

 

Tony cracks up. Steve stops kissing him. His nose is against Tony’s shoulder, so his voice is muffled, but it still sounds petulant when he speaks. Honest to god offended. “Don’t… what are laughing about?”  
“Are you seriously getting hard? You’re getting a post-surgery hard-on from me smelling like a person who’s slept in their same clothes two times in a 24 hour period?”

“You sleep in your clothes all the time.”

“Yeah, but we don’t usually… I mean, sometimes, in the shower, okay, sure, but...”

“You want to get in the shower?” 

“You just got out of it.”

“So I’ll get in again.”

 

Tony is still laughing. “You’re not serious. You’re not telling me you want to fuck on the counter of a hospital restroom, with people we know literally right outside. 

“No, just… let me…”

“What, huh? What am I letting you do?”

“I just want to kiss you a little bit, okay?”

“You want to make out, huh? A little heavy petting?”

 

“Yes,” Steve says. “I mean, sorry, I mean, if you don’t… sorry, I don’t mean to... shit, you’re panicking, I’m sorry. I’m just… I was worried about you and…”

“Shh, honey,” Tony says. “We’re good, I’m okay. What’s going on here?”

“I don’t know, I just feel weird.”

“And you’re getting hard about it?”

 

Steve looks up. His expression is really strange, Tony thinks. He’s embarrassed, kind of, but it’s like it’s floating on the top of deep water, like it’s resisting a strong current to be there. It’s not a strained expression, exactly, but it is sort of desperate. 

“Doesn’t matter.”

“What, honey?” Tony says.

“Doesn’t matter!”

“Stevie, come on.”

“I… kind of want you to do it to me.” 

 

Tony does not laugh again. It takes quite a lot of effort not to, just given how sudden and out of left field that is, in that they are in a hospital restroom, and that literally just a moment ago he was losing his actual mind, and now Steve is grinding up on him and talking dirty, but he doesn’t do it. He’s not entirely sure why he doesn’t, either, he’s just kind of aware that for some reason, he probably shouldn’t. Steve wouldn’t like it. “Oh yeah?” he says, levelly. 

 

“I sort of… really do?” Steve continues. “But we’ve got stuff to do, and there are people out there. It’s not the right time. But I’m just… worried about you and I keep thinking about it.”

 

Oh god, that’s _adorable_. Steve’s funny little face and that little bit of pink in it. Tony feels that valium-flush again, that perverse, particular tenderness he’s been feeling in pulses all day long, about Steve, and his very particular awkwardness. 

“We can’t have our whole sex-life on work surfaces,” Tony agrees. “But I will, Stevie. First down-time, soon as we’re at home, I will.”

“I like… I like when you do it,” Steve says. “You get… bossy.”

 

 

He smiles. “Yeah, you bring that out in me.”

“I just…” Steve says. “Sometimes I think about, you know, when we were first…”

 

There’s a warm feeling at that too. Tony remembers that, for sure. It even makes him a little hard himself to think about. “Yeah, I remember.”

“Just sometimes.”

“I think about it too,” Tony tells him. “Just sometimes.” 

 

Sometimes. Or right now. His hand down Steve’s pants in the dark, when they keep telling each other they’re ‘just watching TV’ only they can’t seem to stop kissing each other and then before long they’re in Steve’s little room and going for it. And it’s actually so gradual, so slow, because every part of it feels good enough to drag out forever and then sometimes in the day Tony is working and then he’ll _remember._

 

It’s stupid that he’s even thinking about that. Right now, Tony can’t tell if Steve is worried, or reflective, or what’s going on, but he sucks his top lip in now, and then he says, “I don’t know, you were pretty good tonight.” 

“You mean this afternoon?”

“Not what I meant, Tony,” Steve says. “I meant, in there.” 

 

Tony rolls his eyes. “Yeah, yeah.”

“Tony…” Steve says, and his tone is a little tetchy, but it’s also a little soft. Tony takes it. 

“Okay, Stevie.” 

“Just maybe stop deflecting about it and let me say thanks and…”

“Hey, look, Stevie, if you’re close enough, I can bring you off real quick? Just to tide you over.” 

 

Steve isn’t quick enough to hide his reaction. His eyes go wide. Then he bites his lip again. Frowns. “Tony, that’s not what we need to be doing right now.”

“I mean it,” Tony says. 

“How ‘bout you though?” 

 

That’s pretty cute, Steve’s response. The way in which Steve would like to have shut that down. But he isn’t that person anymore, he’s the kind of person who gets a little hard from adrenaline, and the kind of person who hasn’t been having awesome sex for that long and can’t _completely_ resist the opportunity to have more of it even if the timing is a little funky. So he reaches for chivalry as a patch-up solution. He’s really trying.

 

So Tony smiles. He shakes his head. “Too tired. It’ll take me forever.” 

“No, I mean… look, we’re busy.”

“Like five minutes.” 

“That just seems a little one-sided though.”

“C’mere, honey,” Tony says. “Come on.”

 

Steve is nothing if not gentlemanly. But the thing is, he is also very, very hard, and is clearly having to work to avoid continuing to rub himself up and down on Tony’s thigh like an oversexed puppy. His face is scrunched up, like he’s concentrating on not doing that, and his posture is tense. And sure, he’d get over it, but Tony kind of doesn’t want him to, under the circumstances, actually. He’d rather just help him out. He runs his thumb along the top of Steve’s jeans. 

 

Steve frowns. “I just… shouldn’t we go?”

“We’ve got time.” 

“Tony, I don’t know how good I feel about you functionally jerking me off when you’re not even…”

“It’s a restroom, Steve,” Tony says, “it’d take me forever.”  
  
Steve bites his lip. “Right. Well, I still think we should…”

“Steven,” Tony says. 

“Pretty sure I’ll stand it.”

“Really?” Tony says. “Do you really think so?” And then he moves.  
  
Steve’s whole body jolts.

 

Tony unzips Steve’s pants (within which Steve is, once again, going commando) and he runs his fingers over the soft hair there, and wraps his hand around the shaft. It’s hot to touch. But hot in way that seems perfectly appropriate for a cock, and nothing funny about it. Steve closes his eyes and breathes in.

 

“Yeah?” Tony says. “Just a little of this?”

“Yeah, it’s not gonna take long,” Steve says. “I don’t… I don’t know what…”

“Happens,” Tony says. “Pretty sure I get it, Stevie, don’t worry.”

“I just… are you okay?”

“Shh, honey. What’s that moisturizer in there?” 

Steve’s eyes snap open, and he jerks his head around. “Huh? What?” 

“Your little bag there? Wanna open it up and throw me whatever that is?”

 

Steve does. It’s awkward, given the position they’re in, but he does it, and it’s just regular body cream, a nice feminine touch from Pepper there, but it’ll do nicely, and Tony fingers out a scoop of it. It’s cold, and Steve winces, but it’s good and slippery, and it heats up quickly. 

 

And Tony knows what he’s doing with this, firm squeeze at the base, running his lubricated thumb up under the head there. He knows his way around a dick, even if he can’t see it from where he’s sitting. Steve shudders. Gasps a little. Whines. Tony can feel everything pulsing, straining, even at that little touch. “Quietly, honey,” he says. 

 

Steve nods. He’s resting his head on Tony’s shoulder, hugging him around the waist, in a way that actually makes it pretty damn awkward for Tony to keep an appropriate grip on what he’s doing down there. However, he figures that if Steve is as close as he says he is, then he, Tony, can probably stand the strain for the duration. Still, he uses his other hand to pull Steve onto his side a little, and that’s better. Steve’s hip is right up under Tony’s junk there – not bad – and he breaks one arm free to fondle him, spiraling his fingers at the collar of Tony’s shirt, pulling at it, making small, gaspy kisses at his throat. 

 

Given a little more time, Tony thinks, he could actually get pretty into this. He’s not opposed to sleepy sex, or crisis sex, or any of the kinds of sex you could argue this is right now. It’s not even like he isn’t turned on by it, it just… feels a little much right now, he guesses, the idea of being naked or physically vulnerable in that way, or anything like that. Just right at this minute, in a restroom. Fondling Steve to fruition while Steve makes out with his throat is positively a-okay, but that’s as far as he wants to take it right now, personally, without a lot of space and prompting and also this not being a restroom. 

 

So he squeezes. Slides. Feels the heat and the hardness in Steve’s body. Kisses his head. Still a little wet from showering. 

“You okay there, honey?”

“Yeah,” Steve says, “yeah, yeah, that… that’s good, Tony, it’s real…mpf.” 

 

Tony squeezes again, and slides down. Runs his hand up over the shaft and tip. And then again with that, and there’s a definite sticky oiliness there that isn’t coming from the lotion now. 

“What’s it like when you beat off, huh?” Tony teases him. “You go zero to sixty in a minute? You learn that in the army? Had to sneak in a quick one off the wrist with a lot of other guys around?”

“Shut up,” Steve says. “I mean… uh. I… shut up, Tony, shut up.”

 

Tony grips, and he’s getting a little faster. “I always thought that would be fun, you know?” he says, affecting a hale-and-hearty tone to add: “say, what are you doing there, recruit? Mind if I join in?”

“Tony!”

“Or is this a superserum thing? Faster, stronger, near instantaneous orgasms… we can rebuild you, we have the technology.”

“Tony!” Steve snaps. And he wants to follow it up, too, but he can’t. “You’re just… oh god. Oh my God. Oh my… Tony, god.” 

“Quietly, honey.”

 

Steve is pulling, pulling at Tony’s shirt. Clawing at the v of his waistcoat. His breath is hot against Tony’s skin. “You’re such…” he says. “Fuck.”

“My personal theory about you is that you were just always an easy lay. You’ve got that look about you. DTF, we call it now. Down t…”

“Down To Fuck,” Steve says, in a gasp. “I know. I know, Tony, I know what it means. I’ve heard of… I know. You always…”

“Shh, honey.” 

“Oh God, Tony!”

“Shh.”

 

 

 

“God!” Steve says again, and then he comes, hot into Tony’s hand. He grunts through it, but yes, quietly enough, and nobody comes running. “There you go, baby,” Tony says. “There you go.” 

 

Tony thinks, though he actually can’t say for sure, that Steve might have cried a little at the exact moment. Quickly, and silently, and not very much, and he doesn’t say anything about it, so Tony elects not to ask, but he’s pretty sure he did. “That feel better?” he asks, and Steve nods against him. His cock is throbbing, going soft against Tony’s palm. Tony can’t hear anybody talking outside. He figures they must be – nobody’s going to just sit there in silence for this length of time. They’re probably passing donuts around and swapping stories, and probably cracking jokes about what they probably (and correctly as it happens) assume that Tony and Steve are doing with their time. But things are insulated in here, and nothing’s penetrating; just pulsing and this tiny bit of wetness at Tony’s collar, and they’re surrounded by stillness. 

 

“Hey,” Tony says. “You okay?”

“Yeah, I’m okay,” Steve says. He breathes in, or sniffles, Tony can’t quite tell. 

“Had a scare tonight, huh?” he asks him.

“Yeah,” Steve says. “And you.”

“Yeah,” Tony says. “Yeah, I did.” 

“’Cause of me?”

“Yeah, ‘cause of you.”

“I’m sorry about that.”

“Don’t be sorry about that.”

“I’m sorry about it. Just maybe… let me do that, if you don’t mind. I gotta focus.”

“Well, okay,” Tony says. 

 

It almost makes him smile, the way Steve hefts himself up after saying that. He steps back, purposefully. Grabs a hand-towel, purposefully. Hands one to Tony. Does a little work on himself and tosses the towel into the trash. Tucks his shirt in and zips up his hipster jeans, puts his hands on his hips for emphasis. Takes a firm, sensible breath, and then frowns, like he’s thinking. 

 

He looks pretty good in those jeans, Tony thinks, casually wiping come and lotion off his hand, in the restroom of a hospital recovery room, as one does. The jeans are a renegade choice, sure: Tony is not so ignorant of Brooklyn fashion that he doesn’t know that the official trend with this skinny jeans thing is having a body like a collection of strung together coat-hangers to go with them. He was there today, after all, he was forcibly among the ‘with it’ for several whole hours. And Steve is slim-hipped, yes, but he absolutely has booty, and that’s maybe not the standard way to rock this look. 

 

It is, however, Tony thinks, something of an improvement on an otherwise tedious fashion choice. Sure, booty is an improvement on everything anyway, but particularly, specifically, Steve’s booty is an improvement on hipster jeans, because it’s a fucking fantasticbooty, and maybe the best piece of technology Stark Industries has ever contributed to.

“Right,” Steve says, unaware, apparently, that Tony is just sitting there thinking about his ass.  

“Right, what?”

“Right, let’s get going. Unless you want to take a shower too?”

Tony wants to laugh at the abruptness of all of that, but he curls his lip out of habit anyway. “I’m not going to shower in a hospital bathroom, Steven,” he says. “ _Gross_.” 

“Sure, sorry,” Steve says, with a little less sensitivity than Tony feels he should. “How could I forget?”

“Lack of breeding,” Tony says, snidely, making an exaggerated face.

Steve snorts. He reaches past Tony for his sweater, which he pulls over his head. He tugs it flush against his hips. “How did you ever cruise?” he asks.

“Excuse me, what?” 

“How’d you cruise? Did you? I mean, if you don’t like to… you know, do it in a bathroom, what’d you do?”

“Steven, are you asking me how I managed to have anonymous gay sex in public restrooms?”

“Uh huh,” Steve says. “I am.”

“I didn’t,” Tony tells him. “I relied on other, less… other methods. What is… I’m not thrilled about this line of inquiry.”

“Well okay, I was just curious.”

“Yeah, yeah, you were just… How do you even know about…?” Tony says. But then he realizes that’s stupid. It’s stupid to think Steve would  _not_  know about cruising. 

 

He’s done washing his hands, and he rubs a hand up and down Steve’s back, sort of by reflex, just sort of checking in on his balance and physical existence before they go back into the real world. Steve feels firm, and the right kind of warm, and just generally okay. 

“About what?” Steve asks. 

“Never mind.”

“Cruising?” 

“Never mind, Steve.” 

 

Steve snorts. Then he turns, pulls Tony against him, and wraps his arms around him, tight. 

“You did pretty good tonight, Stark,” he says. 

“I didn’t do anything.”

 

It seems to be taking Steve some effort not to snort at that too. He feels like he wants to. He feels like he’s actually trying not to laugh. 

“So I’m good in a crisis,” Tony says, against Steve’s body.

“Yeah,” Steve tells him. “I think you are.” 

 

 


End file.
